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DISTRICT SCHOOL 
DIALOGUES j2_ 

For All Occasions 


Choice Selections that Assure Pleasant and 
Pleasurable Entertainments in 
School, Church or Parlor 


BY 

CARLETON B 


. CASE 


I 


SHREWESBURY PUBLISHING CO. 

CHICAGO 







C 


Copyright, 1924, 

by 

Shrewesbury Publishing Co. 


Made in U. S. A. 


©C1A80118s> 

AUG -I 1924 


'Ko | 




PREFACE 

Seldom has one volume of dialogues contained so 
diversified a collection of little dramas as does this 
one. 

And the diversification is intentional; for with the 
finest jewels in the world to select from, the compiler 
has studiously sought to bring together here diamonds, 
rubies and pearls, rather than a string of either gem 
alone. 

So we give you a bright bit of Shakespeare, for the 
more ambitious scholar, and a cheery Cinderella for 
everybody to enjoy; with Sheridan, Joe Jefferson, 
Bob Burdette, Will Carleton, and a number of 
humorous and serious successes by lesser authors, for 
good measure—and good times. 

Seemingly, then, there is provided here a sparkling 
collection of choice dialogues suited to every need, not 
only in day school, but in Sunday school, the lodge 
room and the home parlor—wherever, in fact, youth 
or adult would disport in our socially pleasant and 
mentally profitable pastime. 

We commend this volume to the attention of 
teachers and parents, believing its merits will be self- 
evident, and its little plays the occasion of much 
pleasure to all concerned. 


f 




CONTENTS 


. 

BOYS 

GIRLS 

PAGE 

Bays Club, The. 


— 

7 

Brakeman at Church, The. 

2 

— 

25 

Cinderella . 


5 

15 

Evening at Home, An. 

1 

3 

83 

From Punkin Ridge. 

6 

3 

130 

Gone with a Handsomer Man. 

2 

1 

68 

Honeymoon, The . 

2 

2 

58 

John Robb and Anna Cobb. 

3 

3 

87 

Lochiel’s Warning . 

2 

— 

66 

Merchant of Venice (Trial scene).... 

5 

1 

39 

New Year’s Exercise. 


29 

Rip Van Winkle. 

3 

2 

33 

Romeo and Juliet (Balcony scene)... 

1 

2 

45 

Row in the Kitchen, A. 

1 

2 

102 

School for Scandal, The. 

1 

1 

51 

Stage-Struck Clerk, The. 

6 

3 

112 

Thirty Thousand Dollars. 

2 

2 

72 

Visit from the Smiths, A. 

4 

4 

94 





















































































■ 

. 












' ' 




































DISTRICT SCHOOL 
DIALOGUES 
THE BOYS’ CLUB 

CHARACTERS 

Richard Brown 

Harry King 

Simon Blake 

Willie Moore 

Frank Lee 

John Wylie 

Scene. —A School Room. 

Richard. Now then for the opening speech. Who 
speaks first? 

Harry. Not I. 

Simon. Nor I. 

Richard. All afraid to commence, eh? I suppose 
I will have to break the ice. I will speak my speech. 
(Speaks.) “Arithmeticians have figures to compute 
all the progressions of time; astronomers have instru¬ 
ments to calculate the distances of the planets, but 
what numbers can state, what lines can gage the 
lengths and breadths of eternity?” (Stops.) Let’s 
see. What comes next? I believe I have forgotten 
my speech. 

Willie. One fellow floored. 

Frank. I thought you were going to break the ice. 

John. But don’t you see, he got tangled in the big 
words ? 

Richard. Oh, don’t bother me! How can a man 
speak when everybody is interrupting him? 

Harry. A man can’t speak in a case of that kind, 
and I’m sure it is worse for a boy. 

Richard. But I’ll come out grandly on another 
speech if you will have patience. 


8 


The Boys' Club 


Harry. Go on. 

Simon. Proceed. 

Willie. Continue. 

Frank. Push ahead. 

Richard. (Speaks.) “He is fallen.” 

Harry. You don’t say so! 

Richard. Keep still. (Speaks.) “He is fallen. 
We may now pause before that splendid prodigy which 
towered amongst us like some ancient ruin, whose 
power terrified the glance its magnificence attracted. 
Grand, gloomy and perpendicular—” 

Simon. Perpendicular! Ha, ha! That’s a good 
one. 

Willie. You’d better take up the book again and 
spell out the words. 

Richard. If it isn’t perpendicular, I’d like to know 
what it is. 

Willie. It is peculiar. 

Frank. Richard, you are a peculiar boy. 

John. And his head isn’t quite perpendicular. 
Richard. I believe I’ll sit down. 

John. “Try, try again.” 

Frank. “It will never do to give it up so, Mr. 
Brown.” 

Richard. What shall I speak? 

John. Give us something short, pithy and pointed. 
Richard. (Speaks.) 

“ ’Twas growing dark so terrible fasht. 

Whin through a town, up the mountain, there pashed 
A broth of a boy, to his neck in the shnow; 

As he walked, his shillelagh he swung to and fro, 

Saying, it’s up till the top I’m bound for to go— 

Be jabers! 

He looked mortal sad, and his eyes was as bright 
As a fire of turf on a cowld winther night, 

And niver a word that he said could ye tell, 

As he opened his mouth and let out a yell, 

It’s up to the top of the mountain I’ll go, 

Onlass covered up wid this bothersome shnow— 

Be jabers! (Richard sits down.) 


The Boys' Club 


9 


Willie. Are you exhausted? 

Richard. Yes, completely tuckered out, as the 
Yankees say. But I want to hear from the rest of you, 
now. The way has been opened eloquently, and the 
field is wide. You may debate, you may declaim, you 
may sing songs, you may tell stories. 

John. Tell stories! Well, I have a good one to 
tell. (Relates the following story.) Two Dutch farm¬ 
ers at Kinderhook, whose farms were adjacent, were 
out in their respective fields, when one heard an un¬ 
usually loud hallooing in the direction of a gap in a 
high stone wall, and ran with all his speed to the place, 
when the following conversation ensued: “Shon, vat 
ish te matter?” “Veil, den,” says John, “I vas tryin’ 
to climb on te top of dish high stone wall, and I fell off, 
and all te stone wall tumble down onto me, and has 
broke one of mine legs off, and both of mine arms, 
smashed mine rib in, and dese big stones are lyin on te 
top of mine body.” “Ish dat all?” says the other; vy 
you holler so pig loud I tot you got the toofache. 

Harry. Now I have a story to tell. (Relates the 
following story.) It was during the Irish famine, when 
food was in great demand, when conscience was dis¬ 
regarded, and theft and plunder frequently committed, 
that an Irishman sought to allay his hunger by devour¬ 
ing a widow’s pig. The widow complained to the priest, 
who stoutly upbraided Pat when the latter came to 
gain absolution for his sins, including the theft of Mrs. 
Flannigan’s pig. The father insisted that he must 
return a pig to reconcile the unjustly robbed widow. 
“Oh, be jabers!” cried Pat, “I couldn’t do that. Not a 
ghost of a ha’penny have I.” “But,” the priest replied, 
“only think how you’ll tremble with fear, when the 
Judge you will meet at the great judgment-seat, and 
the widow you robbed will be there!” “Will the widow 
be there?” said Pat with a stare, “and the pig, by your 
sowl, is it true ?” “They will surely be there,” said the 
priest, “I declare; oh, Paddy, what then will you do. 


10 


The Boys' Club 


“Many thanks/’ answered Pat, “for your tellin’ me 
that; may the blessin’s upon you be big. On that settle¬ 
ment day, to the widow I’ll say, ‘Mrs. Flannigan, here 
is your pig!’ ” 

Simon. Hurrah for the pig. 

Richard. The debate comes next. The question for 
debate is, “Is the cow more useful to man than the 
horse?” Harry King will speak on the affirmative, and 
Willie Moore on the negative. Harry, come forth. 

Simon. Harry, come first , you mean. 

Richard. Mr. Blake, you are too smart. I fear it 
will be necessary to chain you. Bring a rope. 

John. Chain him with a rope. Impossible! It 
can’t be done. 

Richard. Time flies. Let the debate go on. 

Harry (rises). The cow is more useful to man than 
the horse, because the cow gives milk, and butter is 
made from milk. This would be a sad world indeed if 
we had no butter. I am fond of butter. We have 
buckwheat cakes at our house, and buckwheat cakes 
without butter would make me think that the times 
were hard. It would be almost impossible to live with¬ 
out butter, and some person has remarked that butter 
is the staff of life. 

Willie (rises). That person didn’t know. Bread is 
the staff of life. 

Harry. Who is making this speech. 

Willie. I only rose to make a correction. 

Richard (rises). I don’t know, but I give it as my 
opinion that when a boy is speaking, other boys should 
keep silent. Remember, I only give this as my opinion. 
I am not positive about it, but I think it would only be 
right and proper for the other boys to be silent while 
the boy who is on the floor is delivering his speech. I 
was interrupted frequently while I was delivering my 
eloquent oration, and I think it would only be right 
and proper to keep silence and preserve the strictest 
order while the speaker is delivering his speech. Re- 


The Boys' Club 


11 


member, I give this only as my opinion. The idea has 
just occurred to me, and I give it as my opinion that 
when one boy is speaking the other boys should keep 
silent. Remember, this is only my opinion. (Seats 
himself.) 

Simon (rises). The speaker who has just left the 
floor certainly understands how to make himself under¬ 
stood. But he is not a positive boy. He does not say 
that it is wrong to interrupt the speaker, neither does 
he say that it is right. But he thinks it is wrong, and he 
wishes it to be distinctly understood that he only gives 
it as his opinion. I like a positive man or a positive 
boy. I want a man to say that this is right and this is 
wrong; I want a man to say that white is white and 
black is black, and not merely give his opinion that this 
is the case. I also dislike to hear a man or a boy repeat 
his thoughts half a dozen times, as the speaker did who 
has just left the floor. It is abominable, and ought to 
be stopped. (Sits down.) 

Richard (rises). I rise, sir, to repel the attack— 

Harry. Don’t get ramparageous. Has it occurred 
to you, gentlemen, that I am entitled to the floor ? 
Have you forgotten that I commenced to debate and 
was interrupted? Now I propose to continue my 
speech, and if I am again interrupted I shall immedi¬ 
ately take my seat. 

Frank. Oh, how sad that would make us feel. 

John. I believe it would actually cause me to shed 
five tears. 

Willie. It would be a sad blow for the cow if you 
should stop now. 

Richard. Let there be order. “My voice is for 
peace.” 

Simon. Which voice? Like Orator Puff, you have 
two voices. 

Willie. Let the cow proceed. 

John. Yes, let the cow walk leisurely along, and 
pretty soon the horse will come galloping in. 


12 


The Boys* Club 


Harry. When a man speaks in “the lofty Congress 
hall” and “swells the high debate/’ he is never inter¬ 
rupted in this fashion. 

John. Do you mean to say that the members of 
Congress know more than we? 

Willie . This is a cowardly imputation from the cow. 

Harry. I shall cease to converse with you. I shall 
go forward to my work. The cow is a useful animal 
because she gives milk. Milk is one of the most healthy 
and life-giving minerals in the Union. 

William. Life-giving mineral! (Laughs.) Ha, ha! 
I am very much afraid that this speaker will go on 
until he calls the cpw a vegetable. 

Harry. A young cow is called a calf. We have 
some young cows here tonight. They annoy me with 
their continual bawling. 

Frank. Oh! 

Willie. Goodness gracious! 

John. Sakes alive! 

Harry. Cows have always been a benefit to man¬ 
kind. A cow is a blessing to a poor man; and let me 
ask you of what benefit is a horse to a poor man? I 
do not deny that the horse is a useful animal, but the 
question for debate is, Is the cow a more useful animal 
than the horse? Fellow citizens, we live in an age of 
improvement, and science is marching forward with 
gigantic strides. Steam and gasoline have, in a great 
measure, taken the place of the horse; but what, I ask 
you, can take the place of the cow? How could we 
have beautiful butter and magnificent milk if we had 
no cows ? I feel that I have asked some stunning ques¬ 
tions. I will therefore resume my seat. (Sits down.) 

John. Give that cow three or four pumpkins. 

Frank. Somebody trot out the horse. 

Willie (rises). Gentlemen, I appear before you this 
evening to debate the question, “Is the cow more use¬ 
ful to man than the horse?” It gives me pleasure to 


The Boys' Club 


13 


speak on the negative of this question. When I was 
placed on the negative of this question I was placed in 
the exact position I wished to occupy. You can there¬ 
fore see that I am satisfied with the arrangement, and 
that I debate according to my sentiments. With these 
few opening remarks, I will proceed to say something 
in relation to the horse. The horse ir, an animal. This 
is an indisputable fact, and a conceded point. The 
cow is also an animal, but when we look at the two 
animals calmly and dispassionately, the superiority of 
the horse is plainly discernible. How often we hear 
the remark, “the horse is a noble animal; but did you 
ever hear any person say that the cow was a noble 
animal? I am sure I never did, and I have traveled 
some in my life-time. Why, sir, just look for a moment 
at the immense check which business received when the 
epizootic came rushing over the land. It was dreadful, 
indeed. Think what a predicament those persons were 
in who wished to ship and receive goods; think of the 
predicament those persons were in who wished to go 
sleigh-riding; think of all these things, and then con¬ 
fess that the horse is a more useful animal than the 
cow. If all the cows in this broad land had been seized 
with the epizooty, and had refused to give milk, it 
would have been of little consequence. There would 
have been no milk and no butter, but that would have 
been a small affair. People can live, and live well, 
without either milk or butter. Indeed, it is said by 
some persons that butter is unhealthy. I think I have 
established it beyond a doubt that the horse is the 
more useful animal. I will therefore leave the floor. 

Simon . I am glad the debate is over. It was 
awful dry. 

Willie. But I am of the opinion that the debate is 
not over. 

John. Oh, please don’t say anything more. Let the 
poor horse and cow have a rest. 


14 


The Boys' Club 


Frank. Are you not going to give me an oppor¬ 
tunity to make a display? 

Willie. What can you do? 

Frank. I can speak a speech*or tell a story. 

Simon. Oh! I am so sleepy. 

Richard. It is my opinion that we should hear 
Frank. If he wishes to speak we should listen, and if 
he wishes to tell a story we should listen. That is my 
opinion. 

Willie. And while Frank speaks somebody can rock 
Simon to sleep. 

John. Or put him “in his little bed.” 

Frank (makes a how and commences). Ladies and 
gentlemen— 

Willie. Stop. Before you proceed further I would 
be glad if you would point to the ladies. 

Richard. Oh, don’t trouble the speaker. Of course 
it was only a slip of the tongue. 

Frank (commencing again). Ladies and gentle¬ 
men— 

John. He is joined to his idols; let him alone. 

Frank. Ladies and gentlemen, I have nothing new 
to offer upon this occasion. I merely wish to say that 
we live in a progressive age. 

Simon (yawns). Oh, I’m so sleepy. 

John. I believe I shall make my exit at the left 
upper entrance. (Runs out.) 

Willie. That gentleman has retired in disgust. 

Frank. If there are any others present who do not 
wish to listen to me they will please retire now. (They 
all run out.) Well, now, I think that that isn’t treating 
a fellow right. It is downright shabby. (To audience.) 
But if you will excuse me I will retire too. (Bows and 
retires.) 


Curtain. 


Cinderella 


15 


CINDERELLA 

CHARACTERS 

King. 

Prince Rupert, The King’s Son. 

Cinderella, A Poor Maid, afterwards the Princess. 
Peacocina, Stucupetta, Vain Sisters. 

Mother, Mother of the Sisters. 

Grandmother, A Fairy in Disguise. 

Courtiers, Servants, Etc. 

ACT I 

S 9 ENE I.— A handsome room. Peacocina and Stucup¬ 
etta before mirrors. Their Mother busied about 
them. Cinderella among the ashes by the fire. 
Peacocina. I do declare, how badly this is made! 
Cinderella! Cinder! where’s that lazy jade? 

Stucupetta. Cinderella! come here first, and bring 
a pin; 

And mind you stick it very gently in. 

Cinderella comes to them. 

Mother. My darlings, not so loud,—you’ll spoil 
your voices,— 

A sweet, low tone your mother’s heart rejoices. 

Very sharply to Cin. 

Be quick, you minx!—I’ll leave you till you’re dressed; 
Think of the prince, and try to look your best. 

Exit Mother. 

Peacoc. Think of the prince! I guess I shall, for¬ 
sooth ! 

O don’t I long to see that stunning youth! 

He surely will admire my silky curls; 

I know he’ll pick me out from all the girls. 

Stucup. How very big you feel! well, we shall see; 
I’m pretty sure he can’t but look at me. 

Don’t you wish, Cinderella, you could go 
And see the palace and the glittering show? 

Cin. (timidly). O yes, I never wished for pleasure 
more; 


16 


Cinderella 


Couldn’t I go and stand behind the door? 

Stucup. Silence, you creature! Go to your cinders, 
do,— 

For that’s the only place that’s fit for you.— 

Sister, I’m ready, put your cloak right on. 

Bring us the lantern, jade, and call for John. 

Scene II.— Cinderella alone in the kitchen crying hy 
the fire. 

Cin. What shall I do? O cruel, cruel fate! 

How shall I bear my life amid such hate? 

I’ve tried to kill myself,—but then it hurts, 

And so I live and serve these heartless flirts. (Cries.) 
Enter Grandmother. 

Gran. Cinderella, why these tears, and why alone? 
Cin. O grandma, dear, my sisters are both gone 
To the grand ball! But do sit down awhile, 

I am so lonely,—’twill the time beguile. 

Grand. And do you cry because you can’t go too? 
Cin. Yes, grandma, I’m ashamed to say I do.— 

I know my thoughts are cast on things above me, 

But I’m forlorn: there’s no one here to love me. 

Gran. Cheer up, my child! I love you, that I do. 
(Aside.) And I’ll be even with those other two. 

Cin. O, thank you, grandma! but you’re only one; 
And what becomes of me when you are gone? 

Gran. Why, then, my dear, your husband,—he will 
take you, 

And prize you well, and never more forsake you. 

Cin. Ah, grandma, that’s an idle jest, you know! 
Gran. An idle jest, my Cinder? nay, not so! 

Now, would you like*to see the ball tonight? 

Cin. O gracious! is it true I hear aright? 

Go to a ball in these old sooty clo’es, 

Covered with ashes? 

Gran. O no, not in those! 

She claps her hands. Cinderella*s rags drop off, and 
she is in a beautiful dress. 


Cinderella 


17 


Cin. What is this? I all dressed in purest white! 
Pearls in my hair,—O mercy! what a sight! 

Such lovely rustling to my silken skirt!— 

Why, where’s my cinders, grandma, and the dirt? 

Gran. Gone, with your care and trouble for tonight. 
Go,—dance, and let your lovely face be bright. 

Cin. But how shall I the muddy crossings pass ? 
For, only look, my slippers are of glass! 

Gran. Fetch me a pumpkin, Cinder, and some rats. 

Cinderella brings a pumpkin and some rats. Grand¬ 
mother claps her hands, and they are changed to a 
carriage and footmen. 

Here is your carriage; and these powdered brats 
Will safe conduct you to the palace gate, 

And wait to bring you home in queenly state. 

But, grandchild, this remember,—’mid your fun, 

When midnight strikes, you must be sure to run,— 

Run for your life! Now, bear this well in mind, 

Or else yourself in rags again you 11 find. 

Scene III .—The ball-room. Dancing and music. The 
Prince stands apart. 

King. Why don’t you dance, my boy? you look 
quite bored. 

Prince. And so I am, dear dad, upon my word. 
Parties are very slow, I really think;— 

I guess I’ll go down stairs, and take a drink. 

Enter Cinderella. 

Good heavens! there’s a girl I haven’t seen; 

Venus herself! why, she’s a very queen! 

What graceful manners, and what eyes of fire! 

What is her name? I really must inquire! 

Bowing to Cinderella. 

Madam, your most obedient,—I can t wait 
To ask your leave, and be led up in state, 

I am Prince Rupert. Won’t you take a turn? 

They dance. 


18 


Cinderella 


Are you fatigued? (Aside.) Her cheeks begin to 
burn! 

(Aloud.) Shall I get you some oysters, or an iee? 
Cin. O no, I thank you sir. (Gazes about.) O, 
ain’t it nice! 

Prince. What is it, madam, you are pleased to 
praise ? 

My palace-walls are honored by your gaze. 

Cin. O, sir, it’s all enchanting, every way! 

I never dreamed of anything so gay. 

Prince (aside). Sweet verdancy! (Aloud.) Per¬ 
haps you’ve just come out. 

I think I haven’t seen you much about. 

Cin. Yes, sir, I’m almost always in, —you’re right; 
Indeed I little thought to come tonight. 

Prince. Sweet princess, surely you came not alone! 
Which of these ladies is your chaperon? 

Cin. If you please, sir, I don’t know what you said. 
I am no princess, but a poor young maid. 

Prince (aside). Poor, with that dress, when gold’s 
so very high? 

I guess her poverty’s all in my eye. 

Madam, I see you choose to act a part, 

And even know the art of hiding art. 

I won’t intrude upon you. Let us walk. 

They promenade. 

Do you like dancing or prefer to talk? 

Cin. Whichever suits you best; I feel so gay, 
Nothing can take my happiness away. 

I always heard the world was very vile, 

But, sir, I think it’s charming! How you smile! 
Prince. O, pray go on! I love to hear you speak! 
Peacoc. Who is that creature? Han’t she got the 
cheek! 

Stucup. She looks like—But of course it cannot be! 
O, if Prince Rupert would but look at me! 

Peacoc. At you, indeed! I hate these stupid balls! 


Cinderella 


19 


Cin. Do you live always in these lovely halls ? 
Prince (shrugs his shoulders). Why, yes, this pal¬ 
ace is where I hang out: 

But half the time I like to roam about. 

But does this tinsel and this glittering show 
Really, my princess, please your fancy so? 

Cin. O prince, how can you doubt of my delight? 
I never saw so beautiful a sight. 

12 o*clock strikes. 

Mercy! the clock! 

She appears suddenly in rags, and runs out. 
Prince. Where is she? Robert! John! 

Servant. What would your highness? 

Prince. Where’s that fairy gone? 

Servant. I saw no fairy;—tripping through the hall, 
A ragged beggar-girl just ran,—that s all. 

Prince. A beggar-girl? You stupid! Watch the 
gate! 

Let no one pass! 

Servant. I reckon you’re too late. 

ACT II 

Scene I.— The kitchen. Cinderella waiting upon the 
sisters and their mother at breakfast. 

Peacoc (sharply). Some buckwheats! hot ones! 
Stucup. Don’t be in a huff! 

I think the ball has made you cross enough. 

Mother. Peace, peace! dear daughters! tell me, 
once for all— 

Some coffee, Jade!—how did you like the ball? 

Peacoc. A slim affair, though very well attended! 
Mother. How did you find the prince? 

Stucup. The prince is splendid! 

What eyes! he looks as haughty as a king, 

And dances so,—in fact, he’s quite the thing! 

Cin. Did you dance with him? 


20 


Cinderella 


Stucup. Not exactly,—no,— 

But then I think he was just going to— 

Peacoc. O, what a girl! you know that’s all a lie. 
But now he really once did catch my eye. 

And who knows what may happen, after all, 

If ever there should be another ball? 

Mother. Who knows, indeed, my wise and thought¬ 
ful daughter, 

If you conduct yourself just as you oughter? 

But, children, who was that,—that young upstart 
With whom the prince conversed so much apart? 

Peacoc. That’s just the question I can’t answer, 
mother, 

But I declare she was an awful bother! 

It’s true, she had a very handsome face, 

And then she moved and danced with so much grace! 

Stucup. The hussy! how I hate her! a spoilsport! 
What business had she coming so to court? 

Cin. O, how I’d like to see her if I could! 
Mother. You’d like to see her! yes, I guess you 
would! 

Cheer up, my children, Rupert’s very young, 

And charmed by every silly siren’s tongue.— 

Why, here comes John, and brings a note. (Enter 
servant with a note.) The dickens! 

It’s from the prince; my children, the plot thickens! 
We’re all invited to another ball. 

Peacoc. O, ain’t it jolly!—well, I see it all, 

The thought of me — 

Stucup. I never, I declare! 

Sister, you’re really more than I can bear; 

I know he thought of me! 

Mother. Well, ’tis no matter; 

No doubt he thought of both; but cease this clatter. 
You’d better go up stairs and clean your gloves;— 
And don’t spoil your complexions;—go, my loves. 

And, Cinderella, clear these things away, 

And sweep the room, and don’t you stop to play. 


Cinderella 


21 


Scene II.— Cinderella alone in the kitchen as before. 
Cin. Well, so they’re gone! My last hope dies out 
quite, 

For I can’t hope to go another night. 

O, well! perhaps it’s just as well I shouldn’t. 

For I could not forget that prince,—I couldn’t! 

O silly goose! O foolish Cinderella! 

Think of your cinders and your dusty cellar! 

Enter Grandmother. 

Gran. Well, grandchild, what’s all this? 

Cin. I’m such a goose! 

Gran. Get ready. Cinder! you’ve no time to lose! 
Cin. O gracious! what! and can I really go 
And dance again! and is it truly so? 

Gran. Of course you can, you silly, foolish child! 
Why, I declare, your eyes they look quite wild! 

You are no kindred to this cross old mother. 

Yours was a countess,—yes, my dear, no other. 

She died; your father sought a wife again, 

And got inveigled in this woman’s train, 

And now you serve, and they command. Look out! 
Some day the tables yet may turn about. 

Cin. Why, I’m delighted, grandma! Anyhow, 

I needn’t be afraid of princes now. 

Gran. Princes, indeed! but look out, Cinderella. 
Don’t let your mind dwell too much on that fellow. 
He’s well enough; but princes grow on trees, 

While princely hearts one very seldom sees. 

But where’s a pumpkin? and the rats, my dear! 

We mustn’t stop to chatter longer here. 

Cinderella brings pumpkins, rats, etc. They change as 
before, and Cinderella’s dress also. 

Farewell, my dear! go, have a joily time, 

But don’t forget the fatal midnight chime. 

Scene III.— Ball-room. 

Prince (lounging about). This longed-for time has 
really come at last, 


22 


Cinderella 


And where’s my vision? Can she yet have passed? 
Enter Cinderella. 

Ah, there she is! (Hastens to her.) My princess, you 
are here, 

And for this evening I have naught to fear. 

Cin. (casts her eyes at him). I don’t exactly, sir, 
know what you mean. 

Prince. Then listen, princess, I’m not what I 
seem,— 

No haughty creature, proud of princely fame,— 
You’re more to me than crown and royal name. 

Cin. Come, now, my lord, I do not want to preach. 
But, if you please, I do not like that speech. 

Prince. Well, I’ll improve it;—here on bended knee, 
I offer you my realm and sovereignty. 

Cin. Can this be true? What, I a prince’s wife? 
Sir, if you only knew about my life— 

Prince. Your life! you carry it upon your face,— 
A life of loveliness, of ease and grace. 

Cin. O no! no! no! it’s nothing of the kind, 

It’s very far from that, indeed, you’ll find. 

Prince. Perhaps your father’s failed,—but that’s 
soon told: 

I’ll pay up all the bills,—I roll in gold. 

Cin. It’s worse than that— 

Prince. Perhaps you teach a school; 

I’m proud of that; it shows you aren’t a fool. 

Cin. Worse still— 

Prince. Whatever can be worse, I pray? 

O well, you keep a shop now, I dare say.— 

12 o’clock strikes , and Cinderella runs. 

Good gracious! why, she’s gone! she’s run away! 

But here’s her slipper. (Gazes at it.) Now just look 
at that! 

It makes my royal heart go pit-a-pat! 

O woman, lovely woman! why so fair, 

To dazzle me, and then to melt in air? 


Cinderella 


23 


But it’s no vision! it’s reality! 

And now I swear to find her out—or die! 

Sinks into a chair, overcome with his emotions. Cur¬ 
tain falls. 

ACT III 

Scene I.— Street. Enter town-crier, ringing his hell. 

Crier. Listen, my countrymen and lovers, friends! 
Prince Rupert far and wide his greeting sends. 
Assemble, maidens! he will ride this day, 

And stop at every house along the way. 

That you should know his purpose is but meet. 
Tremble ye maids forlorn who have large feet! 

Prince Rupert has a shoe! his purpose bold 
To find the maiden whose foot it fits. Behold! 

That one he’ll choose to be his royal bride, 

Though, save her beauty, she have naught beside. 

Goes on, ringing his hell. 

Scene II.— Cinderella’s home. 

Stucup. ’Well, to be sure! I never heard such 
news!— 

O mother, what’s the number of my shoes? 

Peacoc. There’s very little chance for you, I fear, 
For mine’s the smallest foot you know, my dear. 

Mother. I’m very anxious, children, I must own. 
Here, let me see: why, how your feet have grown! 

Go get a vise directly,— now, this minute! 

And never mind the pain, but press them in it. 

My mind with hopes and fears is crowded sore! 
Cinderella, wash your face and tend the door. 

Enter Prince and Courtiers. 

Prince. Ladies, your pardon, do not think me rude. 
With thoughts of a fair vision I’m pursued. 

Here is the slipper; may I try it on (to Mother), 

And see if your fair daughter proves the one? 

Mother. Certainly, sir; you do me very proud. 
Cinderella, jade, your thick shoes clump too loud; 


2 4 


Cinderella 


Go to the kitchen;—why do you stay here? 

Exit Cinderella. 

Approach, my daughter, there is naught to fear. 

Peacocina sits in the chair and the courtier tries on 
the slipper. 

Mother. Why, yes, I think it fits; is it not so ? 
Courtier. Quite well, ma’am, I believe, all but the 
coe. 

Mother. O yes, I think it does fit very well; 

You know at times the feet are apt to swell. 

Prince. Pardon me, madam, almost will not do, 

The slipper must go on all trim and true. 

Mother. Well, here’s my other daughter, Stucup- 
etta;— 

I shouldn’t wonder if ’twould fit her better. 

Stucupette sits down, and the courtier tries it on. 
Why, that goes on! my dear, how does it feel? 

Courtier. It’s all right, madam, just except the heel. 
Prince. Exactness, madam, must be my excuse, 

If both your charming daughters I refuse. 

I bid you all a very fair good-day, 

With many thanks to you (bows); but oh! ah! stay! 

I saw with you just now a little maid— 

Mother. O, sir, you mean my servant,—idle jade!— 
She is without;—she isn’t fit to see! 

Prince. No matter! call her in,—leave that to me. 
Cinderella enters and courtesies; the Prince looks 
at her. 

(Aside.) Why, I believe I recognize those features. 
But can she be a servant to these creatures? 

Hands her a chair and proceeds to try on the slipper 
himself. 

Allow me, madam— 

Mother. Sir, your royal hands! 

Prince. Henceforth they are but slaves to her com¬ 
mands. 


The Brakeman at Church 


25 


(Rising.) For, look! how perfectly the shoe slips on! 
You’re found at last, my own, my fairest one! 

Mother. Really, sir— 

Stucup. She’s a wicked, false deceiver! 

It cannot fit her! no, don’t you believe her! 

Peacoc. I’ve squeezed my foot until the blood runs 
out, 

And is it all for nothing! (To Cin.) Minx, get out! 
Prince (sternly). Bow to your princess royal! 
Henceforth this 

Will be the name your lips will call her, miss! 

No further insults, jeers, or rude commands, 

For she is now transferred to other hands. 

Enter Grandmother. 

Gran. Hurrah! all’s right at last! well, I declare, 
I’m glad for one! Long live the royal pair! 

Courtiers cry, “Long live/* etc. 

Mother. Well, did you ever, girls! 

Stucup. It makes me wince. 

To see her going with a real live prince. 

Prince (angrily). Hard-hearted sisters! 

Cin. O, forgive them, do! 

Surely, if I can pardon, you can too! 

Gran. She’s right; let scorn and anger have no part 
In any corner of your royal heart; 

Crown all your kindnesses with fitting ends, 

And say with me (to audience). Heaven bless you all, 
my friends! 

Curtain. 

THE BRAKEMAN AT CHURCH 

CHARACTERS 

Brakeman, In Uniform, or with Brakeman’s Cap. 
Smith, His Friend. 

Scene. —The waiting room of a railway station. 
Brakeman. I went to church yesterday. 

Smith. Yes? And what church did you attend? 


26 


The Brakeman at Church 

Brahe . Which do you guess? 

Smith. Some union mission church. 

Brahe. No. I don’t like to run on these branch 
roads very much. I don’t often go to church, and, when 
I do, I want to run on the main line, where your run is 
regular and you go on schedule time, and don’t have to 
wait on connections. I don’t like to run on a branch. 
Good enough, but I don’t like it. 

Smith. Episcopal? 

Brahe. Limited express; all palace cars and two 
dollars extra for seat, fast time and only stop at big 
stations. Nice line, but too exhaustive for a brakeman. 
All train men in uniform, conductor’s punch and lantern 
silver-plated, and no train boys allowed. Then the pas¬ 
sengers are allowed to talk back at the conductor, and it 
makes them too free and easy. No, I couldn’t stand 
the palace cars. Rich road, though. Don’t often hear 
of a receiver being appointed for that line. Some 
mighty nice people travel on it, too. 

Smith. Universalist ? 

Brahe. Broad gauge; does too much complimentary 
business. Everybody travels on a pass. Conductor 
doesn’t get a fare once in fifty miles. Stops at flag 
stations, and won’t run into anything but a union depot. 
No smoking car on the train. Train orders are rather 
vague, though, and the train men don’t get along well 
with the passengers. No, I don’t go to the Universalist, 
but I know some good men who run on that road. 

Smith. Presbyterian? 

Brahe. Narrow gauge, eh? Pretty track, straight 
as a rule; tunnel right through a mountain rather than 
go around it; spirit-level grade; passengers have to 
show their tickets before they get on the train. Mighty 
strict road, but the cars a little narrow; have to sit one 
in the seat, and no room in the aisle to dance. Then 
there is no stop-over ticket allowed; got to go straight 
through to the station you’re ticketed for, or you can’t 
get on at all. When the cars are full, no extra coaches; 


The Brakeman at Church 


27 


cars built at the shop to hold just so many, and nobody 
else allowed on. But you don’t often hear of an acci¬ 
dent on that road. It runs right up to the rules. 

Smith. Maybe you joined the Free Thinkers? 

Brake. Scrub road; dirt road-bed and no ballast; 
no time card and no train dispatcher. All trains run 
wild, and every engineer makes his own time, just as he 
pleases. Smoke if you want to, kind of go-as-you- 
please road. Too many side tracks, and every switch 
wide open all the time, with the switchman sound 
asleep, and the target-lamp dead out. Get on as you 
please and get off when you want to. Don’t have to 
show your tickets, and the conductor isn’t expected to 
do anything but amuse the passengers. No, sir, I was 
offered a pass, but I don’t like the line. I don’t like to 
travel on a line that has no terminus. Do you know, 
sir, I asked a division superintendent where that road 
run to, and he said he hoped to die if he knew. I asked 
him if the general superintendent could tell me, and he 
said lie didn’t believe they had a general superintend¬ 
ent, and if they had he didn’t know anything more about 
the road than the passengers. I asked him who he 
reported to, and he said “nobody.” I asked a conductor 
who he got his orders from, and he said he didn’t take 
orders from any living man or dead ghost. And when 
I asked the engineer who he got his orders from, he said 
he’d like to see anybody give him orders; he’d run the 
train to suit himself, or he’d run it into the ditch. Now, 
you see, sir, I’m a railroad man, and I don’t care to run 
on a road that has no time, makes no connections, runs 
nowhere, and has no superintendent. It may be all 
right, but I’ve railroaded too long to understand it. 

Smith. Maybe you went to the Congregational 
Church ? 

Brake. Popular road; an old road, too—one of the 
very oldest in the country. Good road-bed and comfort¬ 
able cars. Well-managed road, too; directors don’t in¬ 
terfere with division superintendents and train orders. 


28 


The Brakeman at Church 


Road’s mighty popular, but it’s pretty independent, too. 
Yes, didn’t one of the division superintendents down 
east discontinue one of the oldest stations on this line 
two or three years ago? But it’s a mighty pleasant 
road to travel on—always has such a pleasant class of 
passengers. 

Smith. Did you try the Methodist? 

Brake. Now you’re shouting! Nice road, eh? Fast 
time and plenty of passengers. Engines carry a power 
of steam, and don’t you forget it; steam-gauge shows a 
hundred, and enough all the time. Lively road; when 
the conductor shouts “all aboard,” you can hear him 
at the next station. Every train-light shines like a 
head-light. Stop-over checks are given on all through 
tickets; passenger can drop off the train as often as he 
likes, do the station two or three days, and hop on the 
next revival train that comes thundering along. Good, 
whole-souled, companionable conductors; ain’t a road in 
the country where the passengers feel more at home. 
No passes; every passenger pays full traffic rates for 
his ticket. Wesleyanhouse air-brakes on all trains, too; 
pretty safe road, but I didn’t ride over it yesterday. 

Smith. Perhaps you tried the Baptist? 

Brake. Ah, ah! She’s a daisy, isn’t she? River 
road; beautiful curves; sweep around anything to keep 
close to the river, but it’s all steel rail and rock ballast, 
single track all the way, and not a side track from the 
round house to the terminus. Takes a heap of water to 
run it, though; double tanks at every station, and there 
isn’t an engine in the shops that can pull a pound or 
run a mile with less than two gauges. But it runs 
through a lovely country; those river roads always do; 
river on one side and hills on the other, and it’s a steady 
climb up the grade all the way till the run ends, where 
the fountain-head of the river begins. Yes, sir; I’ll 
take the river road every time for a lovely trip; sure 
connections and a good time, and no prairie dust blow¬ 
ing in at the windows. And yesterday, when the doctor 


A New Year's Exercise 


29 


came around for the tickets with a little basket punch, 
I didn’t ask him to pass me, but I paid my fare like a 
little man—twenty-five cents for an hour’s run and a 
little concert by the passengers thrown in. I tell you, 
pilgrim, you take the river road when you want— 
(Voice outside , “All aboard.”) 

Both rush out. 

R. J. Burdette. 

A NEW YEAR’S EXERCISE 

(Brief Selections from the Poets) 

NEW YEAR’S EVE 
Concert. 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 

The flying cloud, the frosty night; 

The year is dying in the night; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new, 

Ring, happy bells, across the snow; 

The year is going, let him go; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

(A song to be sung or recited by one of the class.) 
Stay yet, my friends, a moment stay— 

Stay till the good old year, 

So long companion of our way, 

Shakes hands, and leaves us here. 

O stay, O stay, 

One little hour and then away! 

The year, whose hopes were high and strong, 

Has now no hopes to wake; 

Yet one hour more of jest and song 
For his familiar sake. 

O stay, O stay, 

One mirthful hour, and then away! 


30 


A New Year's Exercise 


Days brightly came and calmly went, 
While yet he was our guest; 

How cheerfully the week was spent! 
How sweet the seventh day’s rest! 

O stay, O stay. 

One golden hour, and then away! 

Even while we sing he smiles his last. 
And leaves our sphere behind. 

The good old year is with the past; 

Oh, be the new as kind! 

O stay, O stay, 

One parting strain, and then away! 

NEW YEAR’S MORNING 
O glad New Year! O glad New Year! 

Dawn brightly on us all. 

And bring us hope our hearts to cheer, 
Whatever may befall. 

On thee, old year, O past old year, 

Our lingering looks we cast 
Ere thou dost all our actions bear 
Into the shadowy past! 

For all the joy and happiness 
To us this past year given, 

For all the love and blessedness, 

For all good gifts from Heaven, 

For all the care and sadness too. 

And hearts by sorrow riven, 

As well as for all gladness true— 

Our highest thanks be given. 

Then welcome, welcome, glad New Year! 

Dawn brightly on us all, 

And bring us hope our hearts to cheer,. 

Whatever may befall; 

Bring patience, comfort, gladness, rest, 


A New Year's Exercise 


31 


Bring blessings from above; 

Bring happiness—the highest, best— 

To us and those we love. 

RECITATIONS 

[1] O New Year! New Year! so glad and free, 
What will you bring in your arms for me? 

Here I stand waiting to bid you good-speed, 
What will you bring me, of all that I need? 

[2] While I stand hailing you, fair New Year, 
Change our good wishes to blessings here; 
Change them for us into roses, I pray. 

Into violets of April and daisies of May. 

[3] Change them for all into harvests of peace, 

Into hope’s fruition and joy’s increase; 

Deal with us tenderly, crown us with cheer, 

Bless us! bless only, O gracious New Year! 

[4] Now is the time to begin to do right; 

To-day, whether skies be dark or bright; 

Make others happy by deeds of love, 

Looking up, always, for help from above. 

[5] To the old, long life and treasure, 

To the young, all health and pleasure, 

To the fair, their face 
With eternal grace, 

And the soul to be lived at pleasure. 

[6] A truce to care, 

To gloomy musings on the past; 

New days are on your track; 

You’re twelve months older than you were, 

Be wiser, then! time flies so fast, 

’Tis useless looking back. 

NEW YEAR’S GREETING TO FRIENDS 
In concert. A happy New Year! a happy New Year 
Happy, thrice happy to friends far and near. 


32 


A New Year's Exercise 


Though years that are past with joy have been 
fraught, 

Though choicest of blessings they all may have 
brought, 

May their light pale in that of the New Year 
begun, 

As the ray of the stars in the light of the sun! 

And when ye have drained the crystal life-spring, 
And drunk of all joys that earth’s New Year’s can 
bring, 

Oh, may there begin for each well-beloved friend 
A New Year so happy it never shall end! 

RECITATIONS 

[7] The years have linings, just as goblets do; 

The old year is the lining of the new— 

Filled with the wine of precious memories; 

The golden was doth line the silver is. 

[8] I hear you, blithe New Year, ring out your 

laughter 

And promises so sweet; 

I see the circling months that follow after, 
Arm-linked, with waltzing feet. 

[9] Yes, we will love thee, month of death; 

Yes, we will call thee glad New Year. 

Freeze with thy kiss my weary breath; 

See, I am thine; I know no fear. 

[10] Little by little all tasks are done, 

So are the crowns of the faithful won, 

So is heaven in our hearts begun. 

With work and with weeping, with laughter and 
play, 

Little by little the longest day 

And the longest life are passing away— 

Passing without return, while so 

The new years come and the old years go. 


Rip Van Winkle 


33 


[11] “Life passes—passes” like a dream— 

And yet we, looking back, 

See many a golden, sunny gleam 
Upon the old year’s track; 

And, looking forward, can we doubt 
That there shall yet be gleams 
Of sunshine o’er us, and about 
Us many radiant beams? 

In concert. A place in the ranks awaits us, 

Each one has some part to play; 

The Past and the Future are nothing, 

In the face of the stern To-day. 

Yes, the year is come— 

The fresh New Year, the bright New Year, 

That telleth of hope and joy and cheer. 

Let us model our spirit to chance and change— 

Let us lessen our spirit to hope’s range 

Through pleasures to come—through years unknown, 

But never forget the time that’s flown. 

W. E. Sheldon. 

RIP VAN WINKLE 

CHARACTERS 

Rip Van Winkle. 

Derrick Von Beekman, The Villain of the play, who 
endeavors to get Rip drunk, in order to have him 
sign away his property to Von Beekman. 

Nick Vedder, The Village Innkeeper. 

Gretchen, Rip's Wife. 

Meenie, His Daughter. 

Children. 

Scene. —The Village Inn. 

Present, Von Beekman, alone. 

Enter Rip, shaking off the children, who cling about 
him like flies to a lump of sugar. 


34 


Rip Van Winkle 


PART I 

Rip (to the Children). Say! hullo, dere, du Yacob 
Stein! du kleine spitzboob. Let dat dog Schneider 
alone, will you? Dere, I tole you dat all de time, if 
you don’d let him alone he’s goin’ to bide you! Why, 
hullo, Derrick! how you was? Ach, my! Did you 
hear deih liddle fellers just now? Dey most plague 
me crazy. Ha, ha, ha! I like to laugh my outsides in 
every time I tink about it. Just now, as we was cornin’ 
along togedder, Schneider und me—I don’t know if you 
know Schneider, myself? Well, he’s my dog. Well, 
dem liddle fellers, dey took Schneider, und—ha, ha, 
ha!—dey—ha, ha!—dey tied a tin kettle mit his tail! 
Ha, ha, ha! My gracious! of you had seen dat dog 
run! My, how scared he was! Veil, he was a-runnin’ 
an’ de kettle was a-bangin’, an’—ha, ha, ha! you be¬ 
lieve it, dat dog, he run right betwixt me an’ my legs! 
Ha, ha, ha! He spill me und all dem liddle fellers 
down in de mud togedder. Ha, ha, ha! 

Von Beekman. Ah, yes, that’s all right, Rip, very 
funny, very funny; but what do you say to a glass of 
liquor, Rip? 

Rip. Well, now, Derrick, what do I generally say 
to a glass? I generally say it’s a good ting, don’d I? 
Und I generally say a good deal more to what is in it, 
dan to de glass. 

Von B. Certainly, certainly! Say, hallo, there! 
Nick Vedder, bring out a bottle of your best! 

Rip. Dat’s right—fill ’em up. You wouldn’t be¬ 
lieve it, Derrick, but dat is the first one I have had to¬ 
day. I guess maybe de reason is, I couldn’t got it be¬ 
fore. Ah, Derrick, my score is too big! \Yell, here is 
•your good health und your family’s—may they all live 
long und prosper. (They drink.) Ach! you may well 
smack your lips, und go ah, ah! over dat liquor. You 
don’d give me such liquor like dat every day, Nick 
Vedder. Well, come on, fill’em up again. Git out mit 
dat water, Nick Vedder; I don’d want no water in my 


Rip Van Winkle 


35 


liquor. Good liquor und water. Derrick, is just like 
man und wife, dey don’d agree well togedder —dat’s me 
und my wife, anyway. Well, come on again. Here is 
your good health und your family s, und may dey all 
live long und prosper! 

Nick Vedder. That’s right, Rip; drink away, and 
“drown your sorrows in the flowing bowl. 

Rip. Drown my sorrows? Ya, dat’s all very well, 
but she don’d drown. My wife is my sorrow und you 
can’t drown her; she tried it once, but she couldn t do 
it. What, didn’t you hear about dat, de day what 
Gretclien she like to got drownded? Ach, my; dat’s 
de funniest ting in de world. I’ll tell you all about it. 
It was de same day what we got married. I bet you I 
don’d forgot dat day so long what I live. You know 
dat Hudson River what dey git dem boats over—well, 
dat’s de same place. Well, you know dat boat what 
Gretchen she was a-goin’ to come over in, dat got 
upsetted —ya, just went righd by der boddom. But she 
wasn’t in de boat. Oh, no; if she had been in de boat, 
well, den, maybe she might have got drownded. You 
can’t tell anyting at all about a ting like dat! 

Von B. Ah, no; but I’m sure, Rip, if Gretchen were 
to fall into the water now, you would risk your life to 
save her. 

Rip. Would I ? Well, I am not so sure about dat 
myself. When we was first got married? Oh, ya; I 
know I would have don it den, but I don d know how 
it would be now. But it would be a good deal more my 
duty now as it was den. Don’d you know, Derrick, 
when a man gits married a long time—mit his wife, he 
gits a good deal attached mit her, und it would be a 
good deal more my duty now as it was den. But I 
don’d know, Derrick. I am afraid if Gretchen should 
fall in de water now und say, “Rip, Rip! help me oud’’ 
—I should say, “Mrs. Van Winkle, I will just go home 
und tink about it.” Oh, no, Derrick; if Gretchen fall 


36 


Rip Van Winkle 


in de water now she’s got to swim, I told you dat— 
ha, ha, ha, ha! Hullo! dat’s her a-comin now; I guess 
it’s bedder I go oud! (Exit Rip.) 

PART II 

Shortly after his conversation with • Von Beekman, Rip’s 
Wife catches him carousing and dancing upon the village 
green with the pretty girls. She drives him away in no 
very gentle fashion, and he runs away from her only to 
go and get drunker than before. Returning home after 
nightfall in a decidedly muddled condition, he puts his 
head through the open window at the rear, not observing 
his irate wife, who stands in ambush behind the clothes- 
bars with her ever-ready broomstick, to give him a warm 
reception; but seeing only his little daughter Meenie, of 
whom he is very fond, and who also loves him very ten¬ 
derly, Rip says: 

Meenie! Meenie, my darlin’! 

Meenie. Hush-sh-h. (Shaking finger, to indicate the 
presence of her mother.) 

Rip. Eh! what’s de matter? I don’d see noting, 
my darlin’. 

Meenie. ’Sh-sh-sh! 

Rip. Eh! what? Say, Meenie, is de ole wild cat 
home? (Gretchen catches him quickly by the hair.) 
Oh, oh! say, is dat you, Gretchen? Say, dere, my 
darlin’, my angel, don’d do dat. Let go my head, won’d 
you? Well, den, hold on to it so long what you like. 
(Gretchen releases him.) Dere, now, look at dat, see 
what you don—you gone pull out a whole handful of 
hair. What you want to do a ting like dat for? You 
must want a bald-headed husband, don’d you? 

Gretchen. Who was that you called a wild cat? 

Rip. Who was dat I call a wild cat? Well, now, let 
me see, who was dat I call a wild cat? Dat must a’ 
been de same time I came in de winder dere, wasn’t it? 
Yes, I know, it was de same time. Well, now, let me 
see. (Suddenly.) It was de dog Schneider dat I call it. 

Gretchen. The dog Schneider ? That’s a likely story. 


Rip Van Winkle 


37 


Rip. Why, of course it is a likely story —ain’t he 
my dog? Well, den, I call him a wild cat just so much 
what I like, so dere now. (Gretchen begins to weep.) 
Oh, well; dere, now don’d you cry, don’d you cry, 
Gretchen; you hear what I said? Lisden now. If you 
don’d cry, I nefer drink anoder drop of liquor in my 
life. 

Gretchen (crying). Oh, Rip, you have said so so 
many, many times, and you never kept your word yet. 

Rip. Well, I say it dis time, und I mean it. 

Gretchm. Oh, Rip! if I could only trust you. 

Rip. You mustn’t suspect me. Can’t you see repent¬ 
ance in my eye? 

Gretchen. Rip, if you will only keep your word I 
shall be the happiest woman in the world. 

Rip. You can believe it. I nefer drink anoder drop 
so long what I live, if you don’d cry. 

Gretchen. Oh, Rip, how happy we shall be! And 
you’ll get back all the village, Rip, just as you used to 
have it; and you’ll fix up our little house so nicely; 
and you and I, and our darling little Meenie, here— 
how happy we shall be! 

Rip. Dere, dere, now! you can be just so happy 
what you like. Go in de odder room, go along mit you; 
I come in dere pooty quick. (Exit Gretchen and 
Meenie.) My! I swore off fon drinkin’ so many, many 
times, and I never kep’ my word yet. (Taking out a 
bottle.) I don’d believe dere is more as one good drink 
in dat bottle, anyway. It’s a pity to waste it! You 
goin’ to drink dat? Well, now, if you do, it is de last 
one, remember dat, old feller. Well, here is your goot 
held, und— 

Enter Gretchen suddenly, who snatches the bottle from 
him. 

Gretchen. Oh, you brute! you paltry thief! 

Rip. Hold on dere, my dear, you will spill de liquor. 


38 


Rip Van Winkle 


Gretchen. * Yes, I will spill it, you drunken scoun¬ 
drel! (Throwing away the bottle.) That’s the last 
drop you ever drink under this roof. 

Rip (slozvly, after a moment’s silence, as if stunned 
by her severity). Eh! what? 

Gretchen. Out, I say! you drink no more here. 

Rip. . What ? Gretchen, are you goin’ to drive me 
away ? 

Gretchen. Yes! Acre by acre, foot by foot, you have 
sold everything that ever belonged to you for liquor. 
Thank Heaven this house is mine, and you can’t sell it. 

Rip (rapidly sobering, as he begins to realize the 
gravity of the situation). Yours? yours? Ya, you are 
right—it is yours; I have got no home. (In broken 
tones, almost sobbing.) But where will I go? 

Gretchen. Anywhere! out into the storm, to the 
mountains. There’s the door—never let your face 
darken it again. 

Rip. What, Gretchen! are you goin’ to drive me 
away like a dog on a night like dis? 

Gretchen. Yes; out with you! You have no longer 
a share in me or mine. (Breaking down and sobbing 
with the intensity of her passion.) 

Rip (very slowly and quietly, but with great inten¬ 
sity). Well, den, I will go; you have drive me away 
like a dog, Gretchen, und I will go. But remember, 
Gretchen, after what you have told me here to-night I 
can never come back. You have open de door for me 
to go; you will never open it for me to return. But, 
Gretchen, you tell me dat I have no longer a share here. 
(Points at the child, who kneels crying at his feet.) 
Good-by (with much emotion), my darlin’. God bless 
you! Don’d you nefer forgit your fader. Gretchen 
(with a great sob), I wipe de disgrace from your door. 
Good-by, good-by! (Exit Rip into the storm.) 

Joseph Jefferson. 


Trial Scene from Merchant of Venice 39 


TRIAL SCENE FROM ‘MERCHANT 
OF VENICE” 


CHARACTERS 

Duke of Venice. 

Antonio, A merchant. 

Bassanio, His intimate friend. 

Portia, The wife of Bassanio. 

Shylock, A Jew. 

Gratiano, The enemy of the Jew. 

The merchant Antonio had borrowed for his friend Bassanio, 
from Shy lock the Jew, the sum of 3,000 ducats, and Shy- 
lock had caused to be inserted in the bond the condition 
that, if Antonio should fail to make payment on a certain 
day, he should forfeit a pound of flesh, to be cut off 
nearest his heart. 

Owing to losses, Antonio was unable to pay on the day ap¬ 
pointed; and although his friends afterward offered to 
make double, treble and even quadruple payment to the 
Jew, the latter claimed, as he had a right by the strict 
law of Venice, exact fulfillment of the bond. In this 
scene Portia, the wife of Bassanio, a lady of high mental 
powers and great goodness, but here so disguised as a 
learned doctor and fudge from Padua as to be unrecog¬ 
nized even by her own husband, is introduced to counsel 
with the Duke in the administration of justice. 

The parties appear in court before the Duke of Venice. 


Duke. Give me your hand. Came you from old 
Bellario ? 

Portia. I did, my lord. 

Duke. You are welcome: take your place. 

Are you acquainted with the difference 
That holds this present question in the court? 

Portia. I am informed thoroughly of the cause. 
Which is the merchant here, and which the lew ? 

Duke. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth. 
Portia. Is your name Shylock? 

Shylock. Shylock is my name. 




40 Trial Scene from Merchant of Venice 

Portia. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow; 
Yet in such rule, that the Venetian law 
Can not impugn you as you do proceed. 

You stand within his danger, do you not? (To Antonio.) 
Antonio. Ay, so he says. 

Portia. Do you confess the bond? 

Antonio. I do. 

Portia. Then must the Jew be merciful. 

Shylock. On what compulsion must I? tell me that. 
Portia. The quality of mercy is not strained; 

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath; it is twice blessed; 

It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes. 

’Tis mightiest in the mightiest. It becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown: 

His scepter shows the force of temporal power, 

The attribute to awe and majesty, 

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings: 

But mercy is above this sceptered sway; 

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings; 

It is an attribute to God himself; 

And earthly power doth then show likest God’s 
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 

Though justice be thy plea, consider this— 

That, in the course of justice, none of us 
Should see salvation; we do pray for mercy; 

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much 
To mitigate the justice of thy plea; 

Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice 
Must needs give sentence ’gainst the merchant there. 

Shylock. My deeds upon my head! I crave the law, 
The penalty and forfeit of my bond. 

Portia. Is he not able to discharge the money? 
Bassanio. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court; 
Yea, twice the sum; if that will not suffice, 

I will be bound to pay it ten times o’er, 

On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart: 


Trial Scene from Merchant of Venice 41 


If this will not suffice, it must appear 

That malice bears down truth. And I beseech you, 

Wrest once the law to your authority: 

To do a great right, do a little wrong, 

And curb this cruel devil of his will. 

Portia. It must not be; there’s no power in Venice 
Can alter a decree established; 

’Twill be recorded for a precedent; 

And many an error, by the same example. 

Will rush into the state: it can not be. 

Shylock. A Daniel come to judgment! Yea, a Daniel! 
O wise young judge, how do I honor thee! 

Portia . I pray you, let me look upon the bond. 
Shylock . Here ’tis, most reverend doctor; here it is.' 
Portia. Shylock, there’s thrice thy money offered 
thee. 

Shylock. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven: 
Shall I lay perjury upon my soul? 

No, not for Venice. 

Portia. Why, this bond is forfeit; 

And lawfully by this the Jew may claim 
A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off 
Nearest the merchant’s heart. Be merciful; 

Take thrice thy money: bid me tear the bond. 

Shylock. When it is paid according to the tenor. 

It doth appear, you are a worthy judge; 

You know the law; your exposition 

Hath been most sound. I charge you by the law, 

Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar, 

Proceed to judgment: by my soul I swear, 

There is no power in the tongue of man 
To alter me. I stay here on my bond. 

Antonio. Most heartily do I beseech the court 
To give the judgment. 

Portia. Why, then, thus it is: 

You must prepare your bosom for his knife. 

Shylock. O noble judge! O excellent young man! 


42 Trial Scene from Merchant of Venice 

Portia. For the intent and purpose of the law 
Hath full relation to the penalty, 

Which here appeareth due upon the bond. 

Shylock. ’Tis very true: O wise and upright judge! 
How much more elder art thou than thy looks! 

Portia. Therefore, lay bare your bosom. 

Shylock. Ay, his breast; 

So says the bond—doth it not, noble judge?— 
Nearest his heart; those are the very words. 

Portia. It is so. Are there balance here, to weigh 
The flesh? 

Shylock. I have them ready. 

Portia. Have by some surgeon, Shylock—on your 
charge— 

To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death. 

Shylock. Is it so nominated in the bond? 

Portia. It is not so expressed; but what of that? 
’Twere good you do so much for charity. 

Shylock. I can not find it; ’tis not in the bond. 
Portia. Come, merchant, have you anything to say? 
Antonio. But little; I am armed, and well prepared. 
Give me your hand, Bassanio! fare you well! 

Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you; 

For herein fortune shows herself more kind 
Than is her custom: it is still her use 
To let the wretched man outlive his wealth; 

To view, with hollow eye and wrinkled brow, 

An age of poverty; from which lingering penance 
Of such misery doth she cut me off. 

Commend me to your honorable wife: 

Tell her the process of Antonio’s end; 

Say, how I loved you; speak me fair in death; 

And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge 
Whether Bassanio had not once a love. 

Repent not you that you shall lose your friend; 

And he repents not that he pays your debt; 

For if the Jew do cut but deep enough 
I’ll pay it instantly with all my heart. 


Trial Scene from Merchant of Venice 43 


Portia. A pound of that same merchant’s flesh is 
thine; 

The court awards it, and the law doth give it. 

Shylock. Most rightful judge! 

Portia. And you must cut this flesh from off his 
breast; 

The law allows it, and the court awards it. 

Shylock. Most learned judge! A sentence! come, 
prepare. 

Portia. Tarry a little—there is something else— 
This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood; 

The words expressly are, a pound of flesh. 

Take then thy bond; take thou thy pound of flesh; 
But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed 
One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods 
Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate 
Unto the state of Venice. 

Gratiano. O upright judge — Mark, Jew! — O 
learned judge! 

Sliylock. Is that the law? 

Portia. Thyself shall see the act: 

For, as thou urgest justice, be assured 
Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest. 
Gratiano. O learned judge!—Mark, Jew!—a 
learned judge! 

Shylock. I take this offer, then: pay the bond 
thrice, 

And let the Christian go. 

Bassanio. Here is the money. 

Portia. Soft; 

The Jew shall have all justice—soft!—no haste— 

He shall have nothing but the penalty. 

Gratiano. O Jew! an upright judge! a learned 
judge! 

Portia. Therefore prepare thee to cut off the flesh. 
Shed thou no blood; nor cut thou less, nor more, 

But a just pound of flesh. If thou takest more 
Or less than just a pound—be it but so much 


44 Trial Scene from Merchant of Venice 

As makes it light or heavy in the substance 
Or the division of the twentieth part 
Of one poor scruple—nay, if the scale do turn 
But in the estimation of a hair— 

Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate. 

Gratiano. A second Daniel—a Daniel, Jew! 

Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip. 

Portia. Why doth the Jew pause? take thy forfeit¬ 
ure. 

Shylock. Give me my principal and let me go. 
Bassanio. I have it ready for thee; here it is. 

Portia. He hath refused it in the open court; 

He shall have merely justice, and his bond. 

Gratiano. A Daniel, still say I! a second Daniel! 

I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. 

Shylock. Shall I not have barely my principal ? 
Portia. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture. 
To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. 

Shylock. Why, then the devil give him good of it! 
I’ll stay no longer question. 

Portia. Tarry, Jew; 

The law hath yet another hold on you. 

It is enacted in the laws of Venice, 

If it be proved against an alien 
That, by direct or indirect attempts, 

He seek the life of any citizen. 

The party, gainst the which he doth contrive, 

Shall seize one-half his goods; the other half 
Comes to the privy coffer of the state; 

And the offender’s life lies in the mercy 
Of the duke only, ’gainst all other voice. 

In which predicament, I say, thou standest; 

For it appears, by manifest proceeding, 

That indirectly, and directly too, 

Thou hast contrived against the very life 
Of the defendant; and thou hast incurred 
The danger formerly by me rehearsed. 

Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke. 


Balcony Scene from Romeo and Juliet 45 


Gratiano. Beg, that thou may’st have leave to hang 
thyself; 

And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state, 

Thou hast not left the value of a cord; 

Therefore thou must be hanged at the state’s charge. 
Duke. That thou shalt see the difference of our 
spirit 

I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it. 

For half thy wealth, it is Antonio’s; 

The other half comes to the general state. 

Shakespeare. 

BALCONY SCENE FROM “ROMEO 
AND JULIET” 

CHARACTERS 

. In Costume. 

Scene. —Under a Balcony. 

He jests at scars that never felt a wound. 
Juliet appears on the balcony, and sits down. 

But soft! What light through yonder window breaks! 
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun! 

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, 

Who is already sick and pale with grief, 

That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. 

It is my lady. Oh! it is my love: 

Oh, that she knew she were! 

She speaks, yet she says nothing: what of that? 

Her eye discourses: I will answer it. 

I am too bold. Oh, were those eyes in heaven, 

They would through the airy region stream so bright 
That birds would sing, and think it were not night. 
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand, 

Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand, 

That I might touch that cheek! 


Romeo, 

Juliet, 

Nurse, 

Romeo. 



46 Balcony Scene from Romeo and Juliet 
Juliet. Ah, me! 

Romeo. She speaks, she speaks! 

Oh, speak again, bright angel! for thou art 
As glorious to this night, being o’er my head, 

As is a winged messenger of heaven 
To the upturned wond’ring eyes of mortals, 

When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, 

And sails upon the bosom of the air. 

Juliet. Oh, Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou 
Romeo ? 

Deny thy father, and refuse thy name: 

Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love. 

And I’ll no longer be a Capulet. 

Romeo. Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this? 
Juliet. ’Tis but thy name that is my enemy! 

What’s in a name? that which we call a rose. 

By any other name would smell as sweet; 

So Romeo would, w T ere he not Romeo called. 

Retain that dear perfection which he owns 
Without that title! Romeo, doff thy name; 

And for that name, which is no part of thee. 

Take all myself. 

Romeo. I take thee at thy word! 

Call me but love, I will forswear my name 
And never more be Romeo. 

Juliet. What man art thou, that, thus bescreened in 
night 

So stumblest on my counsel? 

Romeo. By a name I know not how to tell thee who 
I am! 

My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, 

Because it is an enemy to thee. 

Juliet. My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words 
Of that tongue’s uttering, yet I know the sound! 

Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague ? 

Romeo. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike. 
Juliet. How cam’st thou hither?—tell me—and for 
what ? 


Balcony Scene from Romeo and Juliet 47, 


The orchard walls are high and hard to climb; 

And the place death, considering who thou art, 

If any of my kinsmen find thee here. 

Romeo. With love’s light wings did I o’er-perch 
these walls; 

For stony limits can not hold love out; 

And what love can do, that dares love attempt; 
Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me. 

Juliet. If they do see thee here, they’ll murder thee. 
Romeo. Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye 
Than twenty of their swords! look thou but sweet, 

And I am proof against their enmity. 

Juliet. I would not, for the world, they saw thee 
here. 

By whose direction found’st thou out this place? 

Romeo. By love, who first did prompt me to inquire; 
He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. 

I am no pilot; yet wert thou as far 

As that vast shore washed by the farthest sea, 

I would adventure for such merchandise. 

Juliet. Thou know’st the mask of night is on my 
face, 

Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek, 

For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night! 
Fain would I dwell on form; fain, fain deny 
What I have spoke! But farewell compliment! 

Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say—Ay; 

And I will take thy word! yet, if thou swear’st, 
Thou may’st prove false; at lovers’ perjuries, 

They say, Jove laughs. Oh, gentle Romeo, 

If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully! 

Or, if thou think’st I am too quickly won, 

I’ll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay, 

So thou wilt woo! but else, not for the world. 

In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond: 

And therefore thou may’st think my ’havior light! 

But trust me, gentleman, I 11 prove more true 
Than those that have more cunning to be strange. 


48 Balcony Scene from Romeo and Juliet 

I should have been more strange, I must confess. 

But that thou overheard’st, ere I was ware, 

My true love’s passion; therefore, pardon me. 

And not impute this yielding to light love, 

Which the dark night has so discovered. 

Romeo. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear— 
Juliet. Oh! swear not by the moon, the inconstant 
moon 

That monthly changes in her circled orb; 

Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. 

Romeo. What shall I swear by? 

Juliet. Do not swear at all; 

Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self. 

Which is the god of my idolatry. 

And I’ll believe thee. 

Romeo. If my true heart’s love— 

Juliet. Well, do not swear! Although I joy in thee, 
I have no joy of this contract to-night; 

It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden, 

Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be, 

Ere one can say—“It lightens.” Sweet, good-night! 
This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath, 

May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. 
Good-night, good-night!—as sweet repose and rest 
Come to thy heart as that within my breast! 

Romeo. Oh, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied? 
Juliet. What satisfaction canst thou have to-night? 
Romeo. The exchange of th^ love’s faithful vow for 
mine. 

Juliet. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it; 
And yet I would it were to give again. 

Romeo. Would’st thou withdraw it? for what pur¬ 
pose, love? 

Juliet. But to be frank, and give it thee again. 

My bounty is as boundless as the sea, 


Balcony Scene from Romeo and Juliet 49 


My love as deep; the more I give to thee, 

The more I have; for both are infinite. 

I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu! 

Nurse (within). Madam! 

Juliet. Anon, good Nurse! Sweet Montague, be 
true. 

Stay but a little, I will come again. (Exit from bal¬ 
cony.) 

Romeo. Oh! blessed, blessed night! I am afeard, 
Being in night, all this is but a dream, 

Too flattering sweet to be substantial. 

Re-enter Juliet, above. 

Juliet. Three words, dear Romeo, and good-night 
indeed. 

If that thy bent of love be honorable. 

Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow, 

By one that I’ll procure to come to thee, 

^Vhere, and what time, thou wilt perform the rite; 

And all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay; 

And follow thee, my lord, throughout the world. 

Nurse (within). Madam! 

Juliet. I come anon! But, if thou mean’st not well, 
I do beseech thee— 

Nurse (within). Madam! 

Juliet. By and by, I come!— 

To cease thy suit and leave me to my grief. 
To-morrow will I send. 

Romeo. So thrive my soul— 

Juliet. A thousand times good-night! (Exit.) 
Romeo. A thousand times the worse to want thy 
light. 

Re-enter Juliet. 

Juliet. Hist! Romeo, hist! Oh, for a falconer’s voice, 
To lure this tassel-gentle back again! 

Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud; 


50 Balcony Scene from Romeo and Juliet 

Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies, 

And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine, 
With repetition of my Romeo’s name. 

Romeo. It is my love that calls upon my name! 
How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night. 

Like softest music to attending ears! 

Juliet. Romeo! 

Romeo. My dear! 

Juliet. At what o’clock to-morrow 
Shall I send to thee? 

Romeo. At the hour of nine. 

Juliet. I will not fail: ’tis twenty years till then. 

I have forgot why I did call thee back. 

Romeo. Let me stand here till thou remember it. 
Juliet. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there. 
Remembering how I love thy company. 

Romeo. And I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget, 
Forgetting any other home but this. 

Juliet. ’Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone. 
And yet no further than a wanton’s bird; 

Who lets it hop a little from her hand, 

And with a silk thread plucks it back again 
So loving-jealous of its liberty. 

Romeo. I would I were thy bird. 

Juliet. Sweet, so would I! 

Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. 
Good-night, good-night! Parting is such sweet sorrow 
That I shall say—Good-night, till it be morrow. (Exit 
from balcony.) 

Romeo. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy 
breast! 

Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest! 

Hence will I to my ghostly father’s cell; 

His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell. 

Shakespeare. 


The School for Scandal 


51 


THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL 


CHARACTERS 

Sir Peter. Lady Teazle. 

ACT II—SCENE I 

Sir Peter Teazle, a rich old bachelor, marries the daughter of 
a poor country squire, having been captivated by her 
youth, beauty and fascinating manners. Suddenly raised 
from poverty to the wealth for which she marries, she 
plunges into every extravagance, gayety and frivolity, 
much to the displeasure of Sir Peter. The disparity of 
their ages causes him to be sneered at by his acquaint¬ 
ances, and to be beset and perplexed by the assaults of a 
flippant society. This state of affairs is a constant irri¬ 
tant, resulting, very naturally, in many matrimonial 
quarrels. 

Scene —Sir Peter's house. 

Enter Lady Teazle and Sir Peter. 

Sir. P. Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I’ll not bear it! 

Lady T. Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you may bear it or 
not, as you please; but I ought to have my own way in 
everything; and, what’s more, I will, too. What though 
I was educated in the country, I know very well that 
women of fashion in London are accountable to nobody 
after they are married. 

Sir P. Very well, ma’am, very well; so a husband 
is to have no influence, no authority? 

Lady T. Authority! No, to be sure; if you wanted 
authority over me you should have adopted me, and 
not married me; I am sure you were old enough. 

Sir P. Old enough! ay, there it is! Very well, 
Lady Teazle, though my life may be made unhappy by 
your temper, I’ll not be ruined by your extravagance. 

Lady T. My extravagance! I’m sure I’m not more 
extravagant than a woman ought to be. 

Sir P. No, no, madam, you shall throw away no 
more sums on such unmeaning luxury. 'Slife! to spend 




52 


The School for Scandal 


as much to furnish your dressing-room with flowers in 
winter as would suffice to turn the Pantheon into a 
greenhouse, and give a fete champetre at Christmas! 

Lady T. Sir Peter, am I to blame because flowers 
are dear in cold weather? You should find fault with 
the climate and not with me. For my part, I’m sure, I 
wish it was spring all the year round, and that roses 
grew under our feet! 

Sir P. Oons, madam! if you had been born to this, 
I shouldn’t wonder at your talking thus; but you forget 
what your situation was when I married you. 

Lady T. No, no, I don’t; ’twas a very disagreeable 
one, or I should never have married you. 

Sir P. Yes, yes, madam, you were then in somewhat 
a humbler style—the daughter of a plain country squire. 
Recollect, Lady Teazle, when I first saw you sitting 
at your tambour, in a pretty figured linen gown, with a 
bunch of keys at your side; your hair combed smooth 
over a roll, and your apartment hung round with fruits 
in worsted, of your own working. 

Lady T. Oh yes! I remember it very well, and a 
curious life I led. My daily occupation to inspect the 
dairy, superintend the poultry, make extracts from the 
family receipt-book—and comb my Aunt Deborah’s 
lap-dog. 

Sir P. Yes, yes, ma’am, ’twas so, indeed! 

Lady T. And then, you know, my evening amuse¬ 
ments: To draw patterns for ruffles, which I had not 
materials to make up; to play Pope Joan with the 
curate; to read a sermon to my aunt; or to be stuck 
down to an old spinet to strum my father to sleep after 
a fox-chase. 

Sir P. I am glad you have so good a memory. 
Yes, madam, these were the recreations I took you 
from; but now you must have your coach— vis-a-vis — 
and three powdered footmen before your chair; and, in 
the summer, a pair of white cats to draw you to Ken- 


The School for Scandal 


53 


sington Gardens. No recollection, I suppose, when you 
were content to ride double, behind the butler, on a 
docked coach-horse. 

Lady T. No, I swear I never did that! I deny the 
butler and the coach-horse. 

Sir P. This, madam, was your situation; and what 
have I done for you? I have made you a woman of 
fashion, of fortune, of rank; in short, I have made you 
my wife. 

Lady T. Well, then, and there is but one thing more 
you can make me, and add to the obligation, and that 
is— 

Sir P. My widow, I suppose? 

Lady T. Hem! hem! 

Sir P. I thank you, madam, but don’t flatter your¬ 
self ; for, though your ill conduct may disturb my peace 
of mind, it shall never break my heart, I promise you; 
however, I am equally obliged to you for the hint. 

Lady T. Then why will you endeavor to make your¬ 
self so disagreeable to me, and thwart me in every little 
elegant expense? 

Sir P. ’Slife, madam! I say, had you any of these 
little elegant expenses when you married me? 

Lady T. Lud, Sir Peter! would you have me be 
out of the fashion? 

Sir P. The fashion, indeed! What had you to do 
with the fashion before you married me? 

Lady T. For my part, I should think you would 
like to have your wife thought a woman of taste. 

Sir P. Ay, there again! taste! Zounds, madam! 
you had no taste when you married me. 

Lady T. That’s very true indeed, Sir Peter; and, 
after having married you, I should never pretend to 
taste again, I allow. But now, Sir Peter, since we have 
finished our daily jangle, I presume I may go to my 
engagement at Lady Sneerwell’s? 

Sir P. Ay, there’s another precious circumstance— 
a charming set of acquaintances you have made there! 


54 , 


The School for Scandal 


Lady T. Nay, Sir Peter, they are all people of rank 
and fortune, and remarkably tenacious of reputation. 

Sir. P. Yes, egad, they are tenacious of reputation 
with a vengeance; for they don’t choose anybody should 
have a character but themselves. Such a crew! Ah! 
many a wretch has rid on a hurdle who has done less 
mischief than these utterers of forged tales, coiners of 
scandal and clippers of reputation. 

Lady T . What! would you restrain the freedom of 
speech ? 

Sir P. Ah! they have made you just as bad as any 
one of the society. 

Lady T. Why, I believe I do bear a part with a 
tolerable grace. 

Sir P. Grace, indeed! 

Lady T. But I vow I bear no malice against the 
people I abuse. When I say an ill-natured thing, ’tis 
out of pure good humor; and I take it for granted 
they deal exactly in the same manner with me. But, 
Sir Peter, you know you promised to come to Lady 
Sneerwell’s too. 

Sir P . Well, well; I’ll call in just to look after my 
own character. 

Lady T. Then indeed you must make haste after 
me, or you’ll be too late. So, good-bye to ye! (Exit 
Lady Teazle.) 

Sir P. So! I have gained much by my intended 
expostulation; yet with what a charming air she con¬ 
tradicts everything I say, and how haughtily she shows 
her contempt for my authority! Well, though I can’t 
make her love me, there is great satisfaction in quarrel¬ 
ing with her; and I think she never appears to such 
advantage as when she is doing everything in her power 
to plague me. (Exit.) 

ACT III. SCENE I. 

Scene —Sir Peter Teazle*s house. More matrimonial 
troubles. Sir Peter has been bitterly reproving his 
ward, Maria, who has just left the room. 


The School for Scandal 


55 


Sir P. Was ever man so crossed as I am? Every¬ 
thing conspiring to fret me! I had not been involved 
in matrimony a fortnight before her father, a hale and 
hearty man, died, on purpose, I believe, for the pleasure 
of plaguing me with the care of his daughter. (Lady 
Teazle sings without.) But here comes my helpmate! 
She appears in great good humor. How happy I 
should be if I could tease her into loving me, though 
but a little! 

Enter Lady Teazle. 

Lady T. Lud! Sir Peter, I hope you haven’t been 
quarreling with Maria? It is not using me well to be 
ill humored when I am not by. 

Sir P. Ah! Lady Teazle, you might have the power 
to make me good humored at all times. 

Lady T. I am sure I wish I had; for I want you to 
be in a charming sweet temper at this moment. Do be 
good humored now, and let me have two hundred 
pounds, will you? 

Sir P. Two hundred pounds! What, ain’t I to be 
in a good humor without paying for it? But speak to 
me thus, and i’ faith there’s nothing I could refuse you. 
You shall have it (gives her notes), but seal me a bond 
of repayment. 

Lady T. Oh, no! there, my note of hand will do as 
well. (Offering her hand.) 

Sir P. And you shall no longer reproach me with 
not giving you an independent settlement. I mean 
shortly to surprise you: but shall we always live thus, 
hey? 

Lady T. If you please. I’m sure I don’t care how 
soon we leave off quarreling, provided you’ll own you 
were tired first. 

Sir P. Well, then, let our future contest be, who 
shall be the most obliging. 

Lady T. I assure you, Sir Peter, good nature be¬ 
comes you. You look now as you did before we were 


56 


The School for Scandal 


married, when you used to walk with me under the elms, 
and tell me stories of what a gallant you were in your 
youth; and chuck me under the chin you would; and 
ask me if I thought I could love an old fellow, who 
would deny me nothing; didn’t you? 

Sir P. Yes, yes; and you were so kind and atten¬ 
tive— 

Lady T. Ay, so I was, and would always take your 
part, when my acquaintance used to abuse you and turn 
you into ridicule. 

Sir P. Indeed! 

Lady T. Ay, and when my cousin Sophy has called 
you a stiff, peevish old bachelor, and laughed at me for 
thinking of marrying one who might be my father, I 
have always defended you, and said I didn’t think you 
so ugly by any means. 

Sir P. Thank you. 

Lady T. And I dared say you’d make a very good 
sort of a husband. 

Sir P. And you prophesied right; and we shall now 
be the happiest couple— 

Lady T. And never differ again. (Both sit.) 

Sir P. No, never!—though at the same time, indeed, 
my dear Lady Teazle, you must watch your temper 
very seriously; for in all our little quarrels, my dear, if 
you recollect, my love, you always begin. 

Lady T. I beg your pardon, my dear Sir Peter; 
indeed, you always gave the provocation. 

Sir P. Now see, my angel! take care—contradict¬ 
ing isn’t the way to keep friends. 

Lady T. Then don’t you begin it, my love! 

Sir P. There, now! you—you are going on. You 
don’t perceive, my life, that you are just doing the very 
thing which you know always makes me angry. 

Lady T. Nay, you know if you will be angry with¬ 
out any reason, my dear— 

Sir P. There! now you want to quarrel again. 


The School for Scandal 


57 


Lady T. No, I am sure I don’t; but if you will be 
so peevish— 

Sir P. There now! who begins first ? 

Lady T. Why, you, to be sure. (Both start up.) I 
said nothing; but there’s no bearing your temper. 

Sir P. No, no, madam; the fault’s in your own tem¬ 
per. 

Lady T. Ay, you are just what my cousin Sophy 
said you would be. 

Sir P. Your cousin Sophy is a forward, impertinent 
gypsy. 

Lady T. You are a great bear, I m sure, to abuse 
my relations. 

Sir P. Now, may all the plagues of marriage be 
doubled on me, if ever I try to be friends with you any 
more. 

Lady T. So much the better. 

Sir P. No, no, madam; ’tis evident you never cared 
a pin for me, and I was a madman to marry you—a 
pert, rural coquette, that had refused half the honest 
squires in the neighborhood. 

Lady T. And I am sure I was a fool to marry you, 
an old dangling bachelor, who was single at fifty, only 
because he never could meet with any one who would 
have him. 

Sir P. Ay, ay, madam; but you were pleased 
enough to listen to me; you never had such an offer 
before. 

Lady T. No? didn’t I refuse Sir Tivy Terrier, who 
everybody said would have been a better match ? for his 
estate is just as good as yours, and he has broke his 
neck since we have been married. 

Sir P. I have done with you, madam! You are an 
unfeeling, ungrateful—but there’s an end of everything. 
I believe you capable of everything that is bad. Yes, 
madam, I now believe the reports relative to you and 
Charles, madam. Yes, madam, you and Charles are— 
not without grounds— 


58 


Scene from “The Honeymoon” 


Lady T. Take care, Sir Peter! you had better not 
insinuate any such thing! I’ll not be suspected without 
cause, I promise you. 

Sir P. Very well, madam! very well! A separate 
maintenance as soon as you please! Yes, madam, or a 
divorce! I’ll make an example of myself for the bene¬ 
fit of all old bachelors. Let us separate, madam. 

Lady T. Agreed, agreed! And now, my dear Sir 
Peter, we are of a mind once more, we may be the hap¬ 
piest couple, and never differ again, you know—ha! 
ha! ha! Well, you are going to be in a passion, I see, 
and I shall only interrupt you; so, bye, bye. (Exit.) 

Sir P. Plagues and tortures! Can’t I make her 
angry, either ? Oh, I am the most miserable fellow! but 
I’ll not bear her presuming to keep her temper. (Exit.) 

Richard Brinsley Sheridan. 

SCENE FROM ‘THE HONEYMOON” 


CHARACTERS 

Duke of Aranza, The Eridegroom, and afterward a 
Pretended Peasant. 

Juliana, The Bride, daughter to Balthazar. 

Volante, Sister to Juliana. 

Balthazar, A humble artist. 

Scene —In Spain. Present Balthazar and Volante. 
Balthazar. Not yet appareled? 

Volante. ’Tis her wedding day, sir; 

On such occasions women claim some grace. 

Bal. How bears she 
The coming of her greatness? 

Vol. Bravely, sir. 

Instead of the high honors that await her, 

I think that, were she now to be enthroned, 

She would become her coronation; 

For, when she has adjusted some stray lock, 




Scene from “The Honeymoon” 


59 


Or fixed, at last, some sparkling ornament, 

She views her beauty with collected pride, 

Musters her whole soul in her eyes, and says— 

“Look I not like an empress?”—But she comes. 

Enter Juliana, in her wedding dress. 

Juliana. Well, sir, what think you? Do I to the life 
Appear a duchess, or will people say, 

She does but poorly play a part which nature 
Never designed for her?—But, where’s the duke? 

Bal. Not come yet. 

Jul. How? not come?—the duke not come? 

Vol. Patience, sweet sister; oft, without a murmur. 
It has been his delight to wait for you. 

Jul. It was his duty. Man was born to wait 
On woman, and attend her sovereign pleasure! 

This tardiness upon his wedding day 
Is but a sorry sample of obedience. 

Bal. Obedience, girl? 

Jul. Ay, sir, obedience! 

Vol. Why, what a wire-drawn puppet you will make 
The man you marry!—I suppose, ere long, 

You’ll choose how often he shall walk abroad 
For recreation; fix his diet for him; 

Bespeak his clothes, and say on what occasions 
He may put on his finest suit— 

Jul. Proceed. 

Vol. Keep all the keys, and, when he bids his 
friends. 

Mete out a modicum of wine to each. 

Had you not better put him in a livery 
At once, and let him stand behind your chair? 

Why, I would rather wed a man of dough, 

Such as some school-girl, when the pie is made. 

To amuse her childish fancy, kneads at hazard 
Out of the remnant paste—a paper man, 

Cut by a baby! Heaven preserve me ever 
From that dull blessing—an obedient husband! 


60 


Scene from “The Honeymoon 


Jul. And make you an obedient wife!—A thing 
For lordly man to vent his humors on: 

A dull domestic drudge, to be abused. 

“If you think so, my dear,” and “As you please,” 
And “You know best”—even when he nothing knows. 
I have not patience—that a free-born woman 
Should sink the high tone of her noble nature 
Down to a slavish whisper, for that compound 
Of frail mortality they call a man, 

And give her charter up to make a tyrant! 

Bal. You talk it most heroically. Pride 
May be a proper bait to catch a lover, 

But, trust me, daughter, ’twill not hold a husband. 

Jul. Leave that to me;—and what should I have 
caught, 

If I had fished with your humility? 

Some pert apprentice, or rich citizen, 

Who would have bought me; some poor gentleman. 
Whose high patrician blood would have descended 
To wed a painter’s daughter and—her ducats! 

I felt my value, and still kept aloof; 

Nor stopped my eye till I had met the man. 

Picked from all Spain, to be my husband, girl; 

And him I have so managed, that he feels 
I have conferred an honor on his house, 

By coyly condescending to be his. 

Bal. He comes. 

Vol. Smooth your brow, sister. 

Jul. For a man! 

He must be one not made of mortal clay, then. 

Enter the Duke. 

Oh! you are come, sir ? I have waited for you!— 

Is this your gallantry? at such a time, too? 

Duke. I do entreat your pardon;—if you knew 
The pressing cause— 

Vol. Let me entreat for him. 

Bal. Come, girl, be kind! 


Scene from “The Honeymoon 


61 


Jul. Well, sir, you are forgiven. 

Duke. You are all goodness; let me on this hand— 
(Taking her hand, which she withdraws.) 

Jul. Not yet, sir!—’tis a virgin hand as yet. 

And my own property;—forbear a while. 

And, with this humble person, ’twill be yours. 

Duke. Exquisite modesty!—Come, let us on! 

All things are waiting for the ceremony; 

And, till you grace it, Hymen’s wasting torch 
Burns dim and sickly—Come, my Juliana. 

Scene after the marriage—Enter the Duke, leading in 
Juliana. 

Duke (brings a chair forward and sits down). You 
are welcome home. 

Juliana. Home! You are merry!—this retired spot 
Would be a palace for an owl! 

Duke. ’Tis ours. 

Jul. Ay, for the time we stay in it. 

Duke. Madam, 

This is the noble mansion that I spoke of! 

Jul. This!—You are not in earnest, though you 
bear it 

With such a sober brow. Come, come, you jest! 

Duke. Indeed, I jest not; were it ours in jest, 

We should have none, wife. 

Jul. Are you serious, sir? 

Duke. As true, as I’m your husband, and no duke. 
Jul. No duke? 

Duke. But of my own creation, lady. 

Jul. Am I betrayed?—Nay, do not play the fool! 
It is too keen a joke. 

Duke. You’ll find it true. 

Jul. You are no duke, then? 

Duke. None. 

Jul. Have I been cozened? 

And have you no estate, sir— 

No palaces nor houses? 


62 


Scene from “The Honeymoon” 


Duke. None but this: 

A small snug dwelling, and in good repair. 

Jul. Nor money, nor effects? 

Duke. None that I know of. 

Jul. And the attendants who have waited on us— 
Duke. They were my friends; who, having done my 
business, 

Are gone about their own. 

Jul. Why, then, ’tis clear. 

That I was ever born!—What are you, sir? 

Duke (rises). I am an honest man—that may con¬ 
tent you; 

Young, nor ill-favored—should not that content you? 

I am your husband, and that must content you. 

Jul. I will go home! (Going.) 

Duke. You are at home already. (Staying her.) 
Jul. I’ll not endure it!—But remember this— 

Duke, or no duke, I’ll be a duchess, sir! 

Duke. A duchess! You shall be a queen—to all 
Who, by the courtesy, will call you so. 

Jul. And I will have attendance! 

Duke. So you shall— 

When you have learned to wait upon yourself. 

Jul. To wait upon myself! Must I bear this? 

I could tear out my eyes, that bade you woo me, 

And bite my tongue in two, for saying yes! 

Duke. And, if you should, ’twould grow again. 

I think, to be an honest yeoman’s wife 

(For such, my would-he duchess, you will find me), 

You were cut out by nature. 

Jul. You will find, then, 

That education, sir, has spoilt me for it. 

Why! do you think I’ll work? 

Duke. I think ’twill happen, wife. 

Jul. What! Rub and scrub 
Your noble palace clean? 

Duke. Those taper fingers 
Will do it daintily. 


Scene from “The Honeymoon” 


63 


Jul. And dress your victuals? 

(If there be any)—Oh! I could go mad! 

Duke. And mend my hose, and darn my nightcaps 
neatly; 

Wait, like an echo, till you’re spoken to— 

Jul. Or, like a clock, talk only once an hour? 
Duke. Or, like a dial; for that quietly 
Performs its work, and never speaks at all. 

Jul. To feed your poultry and your hogs!—Oh, 
monstrous! 

And, when I stir abroad, on great occasions, 

Carry a squeaking tithe-pig to the vicar; 

Or jolt with higgler’s wives the market trot, 

To sell your eggs and butter! 

Duke. Excellent! 

How well you sum the duties of a wife! 

Why, what a blessing I shall have in you! 

Jul. A blessing! 

Duke. When they talk of you and me, 

Darby and Joan shall no more be remembered; 

We shall be happy! 

Jul. Shall we? 

Duke. Wondrous happy! 

Oh, you will make an admirable wife! 

Jul. I’ll make a vixen! 

Duke. What? 

Jul. A very vixen! 

Duke. Oh, no! We’ll have no vixens. 

Jul. I’ll not bear it! 

I’ll to my father’s!— 

Duke. Gently; you forget 
You are a perfect stranger to the road. 

Jul. My wrongs will find a way, or make one! 
Duke. Softly! 

You stir not hence, except to take the air; 

And then I’ll breathe it with you. 

Jul. What!—confine me ? 


64 . 


Scene from “The Honeymoon’' 


Duke. ’Twould be unsafe to trust you yet abroad. 
Jul. Am I a truant schoolboy? 

Duke. Nay, not so; 

But you must keep your bounds. 

Jul. And, if I break them, 

Perhaps you’ll beat me. 

Duke. Beat you! 

The man that lays his hand upon a woman, 

Save in the way of kindness, is a wretch 
Whom ’twere gross flattery to name a coward. 

I’ll talk to you, lady, but not beat you. 

Jul. Well, if I may not travel to my father, 

I may write to him, surely!—And I will— 

If I can meet within your spacious dukedom 
Three such unhoped-for miracles, at once, 

As pens and ink and paper. 

Duke. You will find them 
In the next room. A word before you go. 

You are my wife, by every tie that’s sacred; 

The partner of my fortune and— 

Jul. Your fortune! 

Duke. Peace!—No fooling, idle woman! 

Beneath the attesting eye of Heaven I’ve sworn 
To love, to honor, cherish and protect you. 

No human power can part us. What remains then? 
To fret and worry and torment each other, 

And give a keener edge to our hard fate 
By sharp upbraidings and perpetual jars?— 

Or, like a loving and patient pair 

(Waked from a dream of grandeur, to depend 

Upon their daily labor for support), 

To soothe the taste of fortune’s lowliness 
With sweet consent and mutual fond endearment? 
Now to your chamber—write whate’er you please; 
But pause before you stain the spotless paper 
With words that may inflame, but can not heal! 


Scene from “The Honeymoon” 


65 


Jul. Why, what a patient worm you take me for! 
Duke. I took you for a wife; and, ere I’ve done, 
I’ll know you for a good one. 

Jul. You shall know me 
For a right woman, full of her own sex; 

Who, when she suffers wrong, will speak her anger; 
Who feels her own prerogative, and scorns, 

By the proud reason of superior man. 

To be taught patience, when her swelling heart 
Cries out revenge! (Exit.) 

Duke. Why, let the flood rage on! 

There is no tide in woman’s wildest passion 
But hath an ebb—I’ve broke the ice, however. 

Write to her father!—She may write a folio; 

But, if she send it!—’Twill divert her spleen. 

The flow of ink may save her blood-letting. 

Perchance she may have fits!—They are seldom mortal 
Save when the doctor’s sent for. 

Though I have heard >some husbands say, and wisely, 

A woman’s honor is her safest guard. 

Yet there’s some virtue in a lock and key. (Locks door.) 
So, thus begins our honeymoon—’Tis well! 

For the first fortnight, ruder than March winds, 

She’ll blow a hurricane. The next, perhaps, 

Like April, she may wear a changeful face 
Of storm and sunshine; and, when that is past, 

She will break glorious as unclouded May; 

And, where the thorns grew bare, the spreading blos¬ 
soms 

Meet with no lagging frost to kill their sweetness. 
Whilst others, for a month’s delirious joy, 

Buy a dull age of penance, we, more wisely, 

Taste first the wholesome bitter of the cup, 

That after to the very lees shall relish; 

And, to the close of this frail life, prolong 
The pure delights of a well-governed marriage. 

John Tobin. 


66 


Lochiei/s Warning 


LOCHIEL’S WARNING 


CHARACTERS 

Lochiel, A Highland Chieftain. 

Seer, A Prophet. 

Scene — Lochiel, while on his march to join the Pretender, is 
fhet by one of the Highland seers, or prophets, who warns 
him to return and not incur the certain ruin which awaits 
the unfortunate prince and his followers, on the field of 
Culloden. 


Seer. Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day 
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array! 
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight. 

And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight; 

They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown; 
Woe, woe, to the riders that trample them down! 

Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, 

And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. 

But hark! through the fast flashing lightning of war, 
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? 

’Tis thine, O Glenullin! whose bride shall await, 

Like a loVe-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. 

A steed comes at morning: no rider is there; 

But its bridle is red with the sign of despair! 

Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led! 

Oh, weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead; 

For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave— 
Culloden, that reeks with the blood of the brave! 
Lochiel. Go preach to the coward, thou death-telling 
seer! 

Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, 

Draw, dotard, around thy old w r avering sight, 

This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright! 

Seer. Ha ! laugh’st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn ? 
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn! 
Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth 
From his home in the dark-rolling clouds of the North? 




Lochiel’s Warning 


67 


Lo! the death-shot of foemen out-speeding, he rode 
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad; 

But down let him stoop, from his havoc on high! 

Ah! home let him speed—for the spoiler is nigh. 

Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast 
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? 

’Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven 
From his eyry, that beacons the darkness of heaven. 

O crested Lochiel! the peerless in might, 

Whose banners arise on the battlements’ height, 
Heaven’s fire is around thee, to blast and to burn; 
Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return! 

For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, 
And a wild mother scream o’er her famishing brood! 
Lochiel. False wizard, avaunt! I have marshaled 
my clan, 

Their swords are a thousand—their bosoms are one! 
They are true to the last of their blood and their breath 
And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. 
Then welcome be Cumberland’s steed to the shock! 

Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock! 
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, 

When Albin her claymore indignantly draws! 

When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, 
Clanranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, 

All plaided and plumed in their tartan array— 

Seer. Lochiel! Lochiel! beware of the day! 

For dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, 

But man cannot cover what God would reveal. 

’Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, 

And coming events cast their shadows before. 

I tell thee, Culloden’s dread echoes shall ring 
With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. 
Lo! anointed by heaven with the vials of wrath, 
Behold, where he flies on his desolate path! 

Now in darkness and billows he sweeps from my sight; 
Rise! rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight!— 
’Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors— 


68 


Gone with a Handsomer Man 


Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. 

But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where? 

For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. 

Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn, 

Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn? 
Ah! no; for a darker departure is near; 

The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier; 

His death-bell is tolling; O mercy, dispel 
Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell! 

Life flutters, convulsed, in his quivering limbs 
And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims! 
Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet. 

Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat, 
With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale— 
Lochiel. Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the 
tale! 

For never shall Albin a destiny meet 
So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat. 

Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their 
gore, 

Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, 
Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, 

While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, 

Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low. 

With his back to the field and his feet to the foe! 

And, leaving in battle no blot on his name, 

Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame! 

Thomas Campbell. 

GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN 


CHARACTERS 
John, The Husband. 

Jane, The Wife. 

Old Man, Her Father. 


Scene. Interior. John speaking outside. Dress, hat, 
etc., lying on chair. 




Gone with a Handsomer Man 


69 


I’ve work’d in the field all day, a-plowin’ the “stony 
streak;’’ 

I’ve scolded my team till I’m hoarse; I’ve tramp’d till 
my legs are weak; 

I’ve choked a dozen swears (so’s not to tell Jane fibs). 

When the plow-p’int struck a stone, and the handles 
punched my ribs. 

I’ve put my team in the barn, and rubb’d their sweaty 
coats; 

I’ve fed ’em a heap of hay and a half a bushel of oats; 

And to see the way they eat makes me like eatin’ feel. 

And Jane won’t say to-night that I don’t make out a 
meal. 

Well said! the door is lock’d! but here she’s left the key 

Under the step, in a place known only to her and me: 

I wonder who’s dyin’ or dead, that she’s hustled off pell- 
mell; 

But here on the table’s a note, and probably this will 
tell. 

Enters and picks up note. 

Good God! my wife is gone! my wife is gone astray! 

The letter it says, “Good-by, for I’m going away; 

I’ve lived with you six months, John, and so far I’ve 
been true; 

But I’m going away to-day with a handsomer man than 
you.” 

A han’somer man than me! Why, that ain’t much to 
say; 

There’s han’somer men than me go past here every day: 

There’s han’somer men than me—I ain’t of the han’- 
some kind; 

But a loven’er man than I was, I guess she’ll never find. 

Curse her! curse her! I say, and give my curses wings! 

May the words of love I’ve spoken be changed to 
scorpion stings! 

Oh, she filled my heart with joy, she emptied my heart 
of doubt, 


70 


Gone with a Handsomer Man 


And now, with a scratch of a pen, she lets my heart’s 
blood out! 

Curse her! curse her! say I, she’ll sometime rue this 
day; 

She 11 sometime learn that hate is a game that two can 
Play; 

And long before she dies she’ll grieve she ever was born. 

And I’ll plow her grave with hate, and seed it down to 
scorn. 

As sure as the world goes on, there’ll come a time when 
she 

Will read the devilish heart of that han’somer man 
than me; 

A-nd there’ll be a time when he will find, as others do, 

That she who is false to one can be the same with two. 

And when her face grows pale, and when her eyes grow 
dim, 

And when he is tired of her and she is tired of him. 

She 11 do what she ought to have done, and coolly count 
the cost; 

And then she’ll see things clear, and know what she has 
lost. 

And thoughts that are now asleep will wake up in her 
mind, 

And she will mourn and cry for what she has left be¬ 
hind ; 

And maybe she’ll sometimes long for me—for me; but 
no! 

I’ve blotted her out of my heart, and I will not have 
it so. 

And yet in her girlish heart there was somethin’ or 
other she had 

That fasten d a man to her, and wasn’t entirely bad * 

And she loved me a little, I think, although it didn’t 
last; 

But I mustn’t think of these things—I’ve buried ’em in 
the past. 


Gone with a Handsomer Man 


71 


I’ll take my hard words back, nor make a bad matter 
worse: 

She’ll have trouble enough; she shall not have my curse; 

But I’ll live a life so square—and I well know that I 
can— 

That she always will be sorry that she went with that 
han’somer man. 

Picks up dress . 

Ah, here is her kitchen dress! it makes my poor eyes 
blur; 

It seems, when I look at that, as if ’twas holdin’ her. 

And here are her week-day shoes, and there is her week¬ 
day hat. 

And yonder’s her weddin’ gown; I wonder she didn’t 
take that. 

’Twas only this mornin’ she came and call’d me her 
“dearest dear,” 

And said I was makin’ for her a regular paradise here; 

O God! if you want a man to sense the pains of hell, 

Before you pitch him in just keep him in heaven a spell! 

Good-by! I wish that death had sever’d us two apart: 

You’ve lost a worshiper here, you’ve crushed a lovin’ 
heart. 

I’ll worship no woman again; but I guess I’ll learn to 
pray, 

And kneel as you used to kneel, before you run away. 

And if I thought I could bring my words on Heaven to 
bear, 

And if I thought I had some little influence there, 

I would pray that I might be, if it only could be so, 

As happy and gay as I was a half an hour ago. 

Jane, Entering. 

Why, John, what a litter here! you’ve thrown things 
all around! 

Come, what’s the matter now? and what have you lost 
or found? 

And here’s my father here, a-waiting for supper, too; 


72 


Thirty Thousand Dollars 


I’ve been a-riding with him—he’s that “handsomer 
man than you.” 

Ha! ha! Pa, take a seat, while I put the kettle on, 

And get things ready for tea, and kiss my dear old John. 

Why, John, you look so strange! come, what has cross’d 
your track? 

I was only a-joking, you know, I’m willing to take it 
back. 

John, aside. 

Well, now, if this ain't a joke, with rather a bitter 
cream! 

It seems as if I’d woke from a mighty ticklish dream; 

And I think she “smells a rat,” for she smiles at me so 
queer; 

I hope she don’t; good gracious! I hope that they didn’t 
hear! 

Twas one of her practical drives, she thought I’d 
understand! 

But I’ll never break sod again till I get the lay of the 
land. 

But one thing s settled with me—to appreciate heaven 
well, 

’Tis good for a man to have some fifteen minutes of hell. 

Will Carleton. 

THIRTY THOUSAND'DOLLARS 

CHARACTERS 

Jemima Jimscoozler, An ancient maiden lady, on the 
lookout for a husband. 

Lucy Jimscoozler, Jemima's niece. 

Bonaparte Boggs, A young man with a desire to marry 
somebody. 

Deacon Trotter, A widower with a desire to marry a 
fortune. 

Scene —A room. Jemima and Lucy Jimscoozler 
discovered seated and in conversation. 



Thirty Thousand Dollars 


73 


Jemima. This is an unparalleled and unpropitious 
evening. It might also be said to be an equatorial 
borealis and a whillaker. 

Lucy. Yes; old Boreas seems to be whispering his 
tempest tune. 

Jem. Old Boreas! Who’s that again? I’d like to 
know. I guess I’ve read a heap of novels, but I never 
read nor heard of old Mr. Boreas. 

Lucy. (Laughs.) Ha, ha! I think we’ll have sleigh¬ 
ing if this continues. 

Jem. Yes; the snow-flakes are flying through the 
misty air. They patter against the window-panes, they 
flirt up against the spouting of the houses; they eddy, 
and skurry, and kerwherry through the spectral 
branches of the trees; and ere long we will hear the 
merry sleigh-bells, as they go a-jingling o’er hill and 
dale. 

Lucy. Aunt, you are quite poetical in your conver¬ 
sation. 

Jem. And isn’t it proper that I should be so? 
There is not enough attention devoted, in these regen¬ 
erate days, to the poetics and the didactics. If I did not 
converse with fluability and consanguinity, I would not 
be honored so frequently with the company of Deacon 
Trotter. The deacon knows when a person has con- 
versability and philoprogenitiveness; and he is irresist¬ 
ibly attracted by those things. And there’s Bonaparte 
Boggs, he has been coming here frequently of late; and 
I have no' doubt but that it is the volubility of my 
conversation, my poetic talk, and my iambic, as well as 
my didactic flow of language, that is urging him on. 

Lucy. Why, aunt! I supposed that I was the attrac¬ 
tion to Mr. Boggs. 

Jem. Good land of Nantucket! The idea is 
absurdical! Why, Lucy, you are but a child, and Mr. 
Boggs doesn’t wish to converse with infantile persons. 
He looks higher, and wishes to converse with those who 
have intellectability and understand the poetics. 


74 ) 


Thirty Thousand Dollars 


Lucy. But, aunt, you shouldn’t claim both Deacon 
Trotter and Mr. Boggs. You ought to allow me one 
of them 

Jem. Why, what an absurd girl you are! If they 
are both attracted by my conversability and my knowl¬ 
edge of the dead languages, how can I help it? And 
it would be the height of impolitability for me to palm 
off one of them upon you. If they are devoted to me, 
how can I avoid it? I am helpless, utterly helpless. 
(Knock at door.) Land o’ Goshen! who can be wander¬ 
ing around amidst the hullabaloo of the present 
elementical season? I wonder if it can be Deacon 
Trotter or Mr. Boggs! And I have not got my best 
dress on! Fly to the door, Lucy, and do not keep the 
dear man standing in the midst of the elemental strife. 
(Lucy opens the door.) 

Enter Bonaparte Boggs. 

Lucy. Good evening, Mr. Boggs. 

Bonaparte. Good evenin’. 

Jem. (Advancing, and taking Bonaparte*s hand.) 
Good evening, Mr. Boggs. I am dilapidated to see you 
—yes, even more, I am rejoiced and expostulated. But 
the roar of the elementical strife! It is a wonder that 
you withstood and outrode it. 

Bona. Yas, it does blow some. 

Jem. It is perfectly horoscopical. But give me your 
hat, dear Mr. Boggs, and sit down, and make yourself 
comfortable. (Bonaparte gives his hat to Jemima, who 
hands it to Lucy.) Here, Lucy, put Mr. Boggs’s hat on 
the table.—Now, sit down, Mr. Boggs, and I will en¬ 
deavor to make the evening pass as pleasantly obnoxious 
as possible. (They seat themselves.) 

Bona. Yas, that’s it. Miss Jimscoozler, yeou talk 
so highfalutin that it is delightful tew listen tew yeou. 

Jem. (Simpering.) Oh, Mr. Boggs, you are such a 
flatterer! 

Bona. Wal, I guess not. (Aside.) I wish she’d git 
eout o’ this, and go tew bed. I want tew talk tew Lucy. 


Thirty Thousand Dollars 


75 


Jem. There must have been some powerful attrac¬ 
tion somewhere to lead you to forsake your cheerful 
and downy fireside, and to go abroad upon this uproar¬ 
ious night. Where can the attraction be? 

Bona. W T hy, in course the attraction is here. Miss 
Jimscoozler. 

Jem. (Simpering.) O, Mr. Boggs, you are such a 
flatterer! It is so hard to believe the men! 

Bona. Yeou don’t mean tew say I’m a liar, dew 
yeou ? 

Jem. O, Mr. Boggsh No, no, indeed, Mr. Boggs! I 
ask your pardon. Far be it from me to let such an idea 
into my pericardium. I was merely indulging in a fig¬ 
ure of rhetoric. 

Bona. Wal, I guess you’d better not indulge in any 
more of them things. 

Jem. You are not offended—are you, Mr. Boggs? 

Bona. No, I guess not. 

Jem. If you are, I shall never forgive myself. I 
shall weep, and mourn, and be incapacitated all the 
days of my life, and I shall go down to my grave weep¬ 
ing ; and when I am there, the wild waves and the wind 
in the lone branches will sing a requiem over me. O, I 
should be so sad, Mr. Boggs. 

Bona. (Aside.) Heow on airth am I goin’ tew git 
rid of this old gal ? I come over tew-night to ax Lucy, 
and I'm goin’ tew do it, or make a rumpus. (To 
Jemima.) O, it’s all right. But I want tew ax yeou 
to git me a drink of water. This snow storm makes me 
as dry as a fish. 

Jem. That is a similar circumstance, Mr. Boggs; but 
you shall have a drink. You shall have a drink from 
the old oaken bucket; and you know the poet says this 
is equal to the neck of the bottle which Jupiter sips. 
Lucy, get Mr. Boggs a drink of sparkling water. 

Bona. No, I don’t want Lucy tew git it. Git it yer- 
self. It will taste better from your beautiful hands. 


76 


Thirty Thousand Dollars 


Jem. O, Mr. Boggs, you are such a flatterer! Yes, 
it shall be so. I will get it for you, Mr. Boggs. 

Bona. And, while yeou air abeout it, s’pose yeou 
draw it from the bottom of the well. I allers like tew 
have the water I drink fotched right up from the bot¬ 
tom of the well, partic’larly on a stormy night; (aside) 
and when I want the old gal tew be away as long as 
possible. (To Jemima.) I never did like tew drink 
water that had been standin’ in. the house fur a while. 
It’s bad fur the health. 

Jem. It shall be so, Mr. Boggs, I would do anything 
to oblige you. (Exit Jemima.) 

Bona. (Aside.) I’m mighty glad the old gal’s gone. 
Neow I must improve my time. (To Lucy.) ^eour 
aunt will be eout for a few minutes. I will come to the 
p’int at once. I want tew marry yeou, Lucy. Will 
yeou hev me? 

Lucy. No. 

Bona. Thunder and Jerusalem. 

Lucy. Are you surprised? 

Bona. By Jehosaphat, I guess I am! Why, I kal- 
kilated I could git yeou jest as slick as blazes. 

Lucy. Our calculations are often at fault. 

Bona. Come, neow, Lucy, yeou don’t mean it. 
Yeou’re jest a-foolin’—ain’t yeou? 

Lucy. No, sir; I am in earnest. I have given you 
the only answer I can give you. 

Bona. Wal, I’ll be doused if that don’t beat the 
dickens! 

Lucy. I think Aunt Jemima would be willing to 
marry you. Why don’t you propose to her? 

Bona. O, she’s too old. 

Lucy. But she has money, and that attracts the men. 

Bona. Heow much dew yeou reckon she has? 

Lucy (Laughs.) Ha, ha! She has just come into 
the possession of a large amount of property. I sup¬ 
pose she is worth thirty thousand dollars. 


Thirty Thousand Dollars 


77 


Bona. Jericho! Dew tell! I reckon she ain’t got 
that much. 

Lucy. Here she comes. 

Enter Jemima with glass of water. 

Bona. Yeou warn’t long away. 

Jem. O, no. I flew upon the wings of the wind. I 
wished to oblige you, and therefore I made haste. 
(Gives the glass to Bonaparte. He drinks.) 

Bona. That is excellent water. (Hands the glass 
again to Jemima, who sets it down.) Yeou air a tip¬ 
top woman, Jemima. 

Jem. O, Mr. Boggs, you are such a flatterer! 

Bona. And I think a powerful heap of yeou. 

Jem. O, dear! You are so sudden! Lucy, you will 
retire, of course. (Exit Lucy.) She is gone now. You 
may continue, Mr. Boggs. (Seats herself beside Bona¬ 
parte.) 

Jem. Really, Mr. Boggs,—dear Bonaparte,—have 
you? O, I am so happy! 

Bona. Yas, dear Jemima. 

Jem. O, dear Bonaparte, will you let me rest my 
head upon your shoulder ? 

Bona. Why, yes, I’m agreed fur that. 

Jem. (Lays her head on his shoulder, and sighs.) 
O, I am so full of happiness. 

Bona. Yas, and I am chuck full tew! 

Jem. Now you may proceed, dear Bonaparte. I 
think I can listen to you. 

Bona. Abeout how much money hev yeou got, dear 
Jemima? 

Jem. O, Bonaparte, why do you descend from such 
beautiful talk; why do you cease soaring away in the 
Egyptian fields and gardens of rhetoric, and come down 
to talk of filthy lucre? 

Bona. Filthy Lucre! Who’s that, again? I don’t 
know him. 

Jem. O, Bonaparte! 

Bona. He must be a rail scallawag of a feller. 


78 


Thirty Thousand Dollars 


Jem. Dear Bonaparte, you do not understand. 

Bona. Wal, tew come tew business, is it trew that 
yeou’ve got the snug pile of thirty thousand dollars? 

Jem. Yes, it is true. But why descend to talk of 
that, when there is such a happy field of conversation 
before us? 

Bona. But I think a feller ought tew attend to busi¬ 
ness fust; then, you know, we can go into the highfa- 
lutics afterwards. 

Jem. Perhaps you are right, noble Bonaparte. 

Bona. Then, if I should ax yeou tew hev me, and 
yeou should say Yes, heow will it be about the money? 

Jem. O, that will be all right, Bonaparte. You are 
not afraid to trust me—are you? 

Bona. Wal, tew tell the truth abeout it, I never trust 
anybody. I’d like tew know abeout heow much yeou 
air goin’ tew hand over tew me if we get hitched. I 
ain’t got much money neow; and I want some. I hev 
bought two yoke of cattle from Squire Doolittle, deown 
to Turkey Run, and I ain’t got nothin’ to pay fer ’em 
with. 

Jem. Go on with your proposal, Bonaparte, and I 
will settle for the cattle. 

Bona. Wal, that’s purty fair; but I want a heap 
more’n that. 

Jem. Would it not be more proper to talk of these 
matters after the consummation of our hopes? after we 
are united? after we are one? 

Bona. Wal, I guess not. I don’t dew business in 
that way. 

Jem. Well, Bonaparte, continue. Suit yourself, and 
you will suit me; only continue. 

Bona. I s’pose yeou wouldn’t be willin’ tew hand 
over all the money tew me. 

Jem. O, Bonaparte, I will be very good to you. 
You need not work any more. I will endeavor to make 
our path through life a pleasant and flowery one. 


Thirty Thousand Dollars 


79 


Bona. Wal, neow, that’s purty clever, too; but it 
isn t quite satisfactory. (Knock at door. Jemima lifts 
her head from Bonaparte’s shoulder, rises, and goes to 
‘window.) 

Jem. Good land! If it isn’t Deacon Trotter! I can 
see him by the faint star-beams which peep from under 
the snow-cloud. 

Bona. I wonder what the dickens the old fellow’s 
cornin’ here fur! 

Jem. O, he is probably coming to see me—that is 
to see me about the donation for the minister. Bona¬ 
parte, just step into the other room, and converse a 
while with Lucy. 

Bona. Confound the luck! I could wring old Trot¬ 
ter’s neck! (Exit Bonaparte at one side of the stage; 
Jemima opens door at the other side.) 

Enter Deacon Trotter. 

Jem. Good evening, Deacon. How do you do? I 
am unlimitedly rejoiced to see you. Take a seat and 
sit down. (Deacon seats himself.) 

Deacon. Yes; it is a little late, probably, for call¬ 
ing; but I had a visitor, and could not come sooner. 

Jem. I am always glad to see you, deacon—yes, 
always. 

Dea. And I am always glad to see you. 

Jem. O, deacon, you immense flatterer! How can 
y T ou talk so? 

Dea. Well, it is a fact. Miss Jimscoozler. I almost 
live upon your smiles. 

Jem. O, deacon, you dear man! If this is true, I 
shall wear a smile continually. 

Dea. And I will be continually delighted. Miss 
Jimscoozler, I have been thinking seriously for some 
time of speaking to you upon a certain subject. The 
subject is an important one, and deeply concerns my 
temporal welfare and happiness. 


80 


Thirty Thousand Dollars 


Jem. Go on, deacon, I shall listen with an eager 
ear and a palpitating heart. 

Dea. I have taken notice of you for some time, Miss 
Jimscoozler, and I am convinced that you are an excel¬ 
lent woman. 

Jem. O, deacon, you are an extraordinary flatterer! 

Dea. No, Miss Jimscoozler; I but speak the truth. 
You know I have been a widower for one whole year. 
The interests of my children, and my own interests, 
demand that I shall take a wife. 

Jem. O, deacon, how you make my heart tremble 
with the palpitulations! 

Dea. Here, rest your head upon my shoulder, and 
you will be better able to listen to my tale of love. 
(Jemima rests her head upon his shoulder.) Now, shall 
I proceed? 

Jem. Yes, deacon, dear man, proceed. 

Dea. As I was saying, my own interests, and the in¬ 
terests of my children, demand that I should hasten and 
take unto myself a wife. Since my first dear wife 
passed away, I have looked upon you and thought upon 
you. I have studied you; I have noted ^your every 
movement. I have only called upon you a few times; 
but I made up my mind to-day that I would delay no 
longer. I determined that I would know my fate to¬ 
night. I have come for that purpose. Miss Jimscoozler 
—Jemima—will you make me a very happy man by 
becoming my wife? 

Jem. I—O—yes—that is- 

Enter Bonaparte hastily. 

Bona. Here! Hello! What upon airth does this 
mean, anyheow? (Deacon Trotter and Jemima spring 
up.) Jemima, heow dare yeou lay yeour head upon that 
villain’s shoulder? 

Dea. Do you call me a villain? 


Thirty Thousand Dollars 


81 


Bona. Wal, neow, I dew. That woman is my be- 
troughligated wjfe, and it is contrary tew Scripter fer 
yeou tew spark her. 

Dea. Is this true, Jemima? 

Jem. No, not a word of it. He asked me to marry 
him; but he didn’t seem to care as much for me as for 
my money. 

Dea. Ah! he wanted your money! 

Bona. And that is what yeou want, yeou old hypo¬ 
crite ! 

Dea. Beware, sir. I can be aroused— 

Bona. So can I, yeou old dromedary. By the 
jumpin’ Jehosaphat, I’ve a mind tew pull yeour old 
head off! 

Jem. Mr. Boggs, retire. I love you not. You are 
too fierce and lion-like to mate with me. I am as gentle 
as a tender lamb. The deacon suits me better. We 
are centrifugal spirits. 

Enter Lucy. 

Lucy. Aunt, here is a letter for you. 

Jem. (Takes it, and reads aloud.) “Miss Jimscooz- 
ler, this to inform you that Webster & Co. have sus¬ 
pended, and all your money is swept away. Yours, B. 
B. Conway.” 

Bona. Jehosaphat! What a sweep! 

Dea. Dreadful! dreadful! 

Jem. ’Tis sad, indeed; but you are left to me, dear 
deacon; and I can yet be very happy. 

Dea. O—ah—that is—I have changed my mind. 

Jem. Changed your mind! What means this? Do 
I hear aright—or am I crazy? 

Dea. I think I shall never marry. It will suit me 
better to remain as I am. 

Jem. (Weeps.) 0!0! Boo hoo! O! O! 

Dea. Don’t sorrow so. All is for the best. 

Jem. (Turning to Bonaparte.) You will not desert 
me, too—will you, dear Bonaparte? 


82 


I 


Thirty Thousand Dollars 


Bona. Wal, yes, I kalkilate I will. Yeou desarted 
me; and I reckon turn abeout is fair play. 

Jem. (Weeps.) O! boo hoo! O! O! Cruel, cruel 
man! But you shall pay dearly for this. O! Boo hoo! 
boo hoo! 

Lucy. Now let me say a word. I had an idea that 
you two gentlemen wanted to marry Aunt Jemima 
simply because she had some money. You didn’t care 
for the woman, but you wanted the woman’s money. 
Bah! how I despise you! But I haven’t told you all. 
That note, purporting* to have come from my aunt’s 
attorney, was written by me. Aunt has not lost her 
money. (Scornfully.) Gentlemen, how do you feel? 

Dea. (To Jemima.) O, I am so sorry! Can you 
forgive me? 

Bona. Yeou know it warn’t my fault. I reckon 
yeou can forgive me tew. 

Jem. (To Deacon Trotter.) You would be willing 
to marry me, if I should turn my entire fortune over 
to you? 

Dea. (Eagerly.) Yes. 

Jem. And you, Bonaparte Boggs, are you willing to 
marry me, provided I hand the thirty thousand over to 
you? 

Bona. Wal, yas, I guess I am. 

Jem. Then here is my answer. (Seizes broom, and 
strikes Deacon Trotter.) You are a pretty deacon. 
Go! (She raises the broom, and strikes Bonaparte 
Boggs.) Brave man! Cautious calculator! Leave! 
(Exeunt hastily, Deacon Trotter at one side of the 
stage, and Bonaparte Boggs at the other.) 

Lucy. Aunt, you have done nobly. 

Jem. And so have you, for you have enabled me to 
see these two men in their true light. I am determined 
now that I will remain single, and keep my Thirty 
Thousand Dollars. H. Elliott McBride. 

Curtain. 


An Evening at Home 


83 


AN EVENING AT HOME 


CHARACTERS 

Mrs. Burns Frank Burns 

Ella Burns Annie Burns 

Scene— A room. 

Frank. Mother, may I go down to the skating pond 
to-night? It is good moonlight, and all the boys are 
going. 

Mrs. Bums. No, Frank, I cannot let you go to-night. 
You know you were there last night, and I do not want 
you to go so often. You can enjoy yourself in some 
way at home. 

Frank. I don’t know what fun a fellow can have 
moping about the house all the evening. I’d rather be 
out flying over the ice. 

Mrs. Bums. But it is not good for your health to be 
out so much at night. If you do not feel like reading 
or studying, we can make you enjoy yourself in some 
other way. 

Frank. Well, I’m sure I don’t feel like reading or 
studying. I have too much of that to do at school. 

Mrs. Burns. Then you can have some little plays, or 
you can ask conundrums, or make speeches, or sing 
songs. 

Frank. Mother, I don’t think I can cheer you up 
to-night by singing songs. Jim Wallace says I am no 
“singist,” and I agree with him. If I ever make a 
mark in the world, I think it will not be as a singer. 
But I wish I could sing. 

Ella. Mother spoke of conundrums. If you will 
allow me, I will ask one. But I do not claim it as 
original. Why is woman like the ocean? 

Mrs. Bums. I’m sure I don’t know. Perhaps Frank 
can tell. 



84 


An Evening at Home 


Frank. No, I can’t tell. Indeed, I don’t see any 
resemblance. 

Mrs. Burns. Annie, you have been keeping silent; 
perhaps you can answer. 

Annie. No, I never could guess the answers to 
conundrums. I think they are most awful hard. 

Mrs. Bums. Ella, you see we are all very dull, and 
so you will have to tell us the answer. 

Ella. It is because you can’t make her dry up. 

Frank. Our teacher says we shouldn’t say “dry up.” 
She says that is a slang phrase. And our lady-like 
sister is talking slang. Oh, fie, Ella! what a naughty 
girl you are! 

Ella. I’m sure I just said the same that I saw in 
the paper. That was the answer. 

Frank. But will you read such an awful paper as 
will have such wicked words in it as dry up? 

Annie. That’s just like Frank; he always says what 
he doesn’t mean. He’s only pretending. 

Mrs. Bums. Yes, he is trying to be sarcastic. Well, 
what is the next thing to be done ? 

Annie. I know something. 

Frank. You’re too little to know anything very 
grand. 

Annie. Don’t be too sure about that, Mr. Frank. I 
learned something from Jane Bowman, and I think it 
is real funny. 

Mrs. Burns. Let us have it then, Annie. Of course 
we expect you to add your mite in making up the exer¬ 
cises of the evening. 

Annie. Frank, you may go out of the room and turn 
over two books, and when you come in I can tell you 
the name of the book you turned over last. 

Frank. Well, little sister, if you can do that it will 
be something wonderful. 

Annie. Go out, then, and I’ll show you if I can’t do 
it. (Exit Frank.) 


An Evening at Home 


85 


Ella. How do you do that? 

Annie. I will set a book against the door, and when 
he comes in he will overturn it, and of course that is the 
one he will turn over last. 

Ella. Good. That will be splendid. (Annie gets a 
book and sets it against the door.) 

Annie. (Calling to Frank.) Now, Frank, you may 
come in. 

Enter Frank. 

Frank. What book did I turn over last? 

Annie. Robinson Crusoe. 

Frank. Ha, ha! I guess you missed it. Your little 
play didn’t work right, did it? (Laughs.) Ha, ha! 

Annie. Don’t laugh too soon, Mr. Frank. What book 
is that lying there by the door? I think you will see 
that it is Robinson Crusoe, if you will look at it. 

Frank. (Holding up the book.) Yes, I see plainly 
enough that it is Robinson Crusoe, but I do not see 
what that has got to do with it. 

Ella. You don’t see it? Why, I thought you were 
clever enough to see everything. 

Mrs. Burns. Come, Ella, you must not be personal 
in your remarks. Besides, this is Annie s affair, not 
yours. 

Annie. What did I ask you to do, Frank? 

Frank. I was to go out of the room and turn over 
two books, and I did so. You promised to tell me the 
name of the last book I turned over, and it certainly 
was not Robinson Crusoe. 

Annie. Indeed, then, it was. Robinson Crusoe was 
turned over when you opened the door. 

Frank. Pretty good for the small child, Annie. Have 
you anything more to offer? 

Mrs. Bums. Frank, it is your turn now to offer 
something for the amusement of the company. Ella 
has asked a conundrum and Annie has performed a very- 
amusing trick. Now, what can you do? 


86 


An Evening at Home 


Frank. Well, I really don’t know unless I sing a 
song. 

Ella. (Laughs.) Ha, ha! The idea of Frank sing¬ 
ing a song is funny. 

Frank. If a fellow can’t sing you shouldn’t laugh at 
him on that account. Perhaps you’d like I’d make a 
speech. 

Annie. Oh, that would be grand, but then I don't 
think you can make a speech. It takes big men to 
make speeches. 

Frank. Yes, or very smart boys. 

Mrs. Burns. Frank can try, and if he should fail, 
there’s no harm done. All our great orators had to 
make a beginning. 

Frank. Well, here goes for my beginning. (Makes a 
bow and commences.) Ladies and gentlemen. But 
then I am the only gentleman present. 

Annie. Ha, ha! Oh, Frank, what a funny boy you 
are! 

Frank. I’ll commence again. Ladies, I appear be¬ 
fore you this evening to make my first speech. Some 
boys can speak; other boys cannot speak. It remains 
to be seen whether I belong to the former or the latter 
class. I am inclined to believe, however, that I belong 
to the former class. I know it is a pretty hard matter 
to make a speech. I guess Cicero thought so, and I 
guess that other old fellow with the long name thought 
so too. I do not intend to-night to enter into any long 
arguments to prove anything, neither do I intend to 
dive deep into any deep questions. If I should do so, 
I might get swamped, and it is better not to get 
swamped when you are making your first speech. I 
guess I shall not speak on chemistry, nor philosophy, 
nor geography, nor geology. I will not speak on meta¬ 
physics, either, (for I don’t know what that is;) I will 
simply say words and make a noise, and you, my 
hearers, who are not very intelligent, will think I am 


John Robb and Anna Cobb 


87 


making a good speech. I might go on to say that skat¬ 
ing is excellent sport, but some boys have mothers who 
think that they should not go out too much, and so the 
said boys do not get to skate as much as they would 
like. I might go on for several minutes yet, and make 
a very eloquent speech, but I do not want to astonish 
you, my hearers, and so I will stop. (Bows and sits 
dozen. Ella and Annie clap their hands.) 

Mrs. Barns. That speech is worthy of applause. I 
am glad you did not go to skate this evening, since it 
has given you a chance to display your oratorical 
powers. If you do not make a singer, I think you will 
make a speaker. 

Frank. (To Audience.) Mother is disposed to be 
complimentary; but I can say to you, my friends, that 
I do not regret that I spent the Evening at Home. 

Curtain. 

JOHN ROBB AND ANNA COBB 


CHARACTERS 

John Robb Ellen Cobb 

Charles Wylie Mr. Cobb 

Anna Cobb Mrs. Cobb 

Scene I— A lawyer s office. John Robb and Charles 

Wylie discovered seated. 

John. You haven’t seen the Cobb sisters, I suppose? 

Charles. No. Who are they, and where do they 
reside ? 

John. Their home is on Tenth Street. Don’t you 
wish to see them? 

Charles. I don’t know that I have any particular 
desire. Are they wealthy? 

John. Wealthy! I should say they were. The old 
gentleman lives in affluence. If you want a wife who 
has the “tin,” now’s your chance. 

Charles. Perhaps I couldn’t shine. 



88 


John Robb and Anna Cobb 


John. Faint heart never won a wealthy lady. Never 
say die. I’m going down there this evening. Come 
along, and you will see a couple of brilliant ladies. 
What do you say?* Will you go? 

Charles. Yes, I shall be glad to do so. 

John. Now, what do you think of the idea of pro¬ 
posing tonight? 

Charles. Proposing! Jupiter! I can’t see the pro¬ 
priety of being in so much of a hurry. 

John. Well, I have made up my mind that I will 
propose immediately. “Strike while the iron’s hot’’; 
that’s a good maxim. 

Charles. But you have known the sisters for some 
time. Now* if I should propose, it would be looked 
upon as an absurdity of the worst kind. The lady 
w r ould probably send me home in disgrace. 

John. Oh, you are too cautious. I know you want a 
wealthy wife; I know you want a fine looking wife, too, 
and although Ellen Cobb is not beautiful, she is pass¬ 
ably handsome. If you are pleased with her, take my 
advice, and come to the point to-night. Delays are 
dangerous, and another gentleman, not so cautious, may 
step in and win the prize. 

Charles. Then she has other admirers? 

John. Yes, I should think so! Probably a dozen. 
Young ladies who have the “tin” generally have hosts 
of admirers. 

Charles. How much is the father worth? 

John. Ah! I see; you want to know the exact 
figures. Well, it is supposed he is worth half a mil¬ 
lion, and I think there can be no doubt but that the 
figures are correct. 

Charles. And he has but the two children? 

John. That is all I know of. I have only known 
Anna for a fortnight, and haven’t ventured to ask if 
she had any brothers or sisters. I feel almost certain 
however, that I would have known it before this time 
if there had been any more members of the family. 


John Robb and Anna Cobb 


89 


Charles. I suppose it will be hurrying matters, but 
if the lady pleases me, I will probably propose to-night. 

John. Sensible fellow! We will both succeed, I 
have no doubt of it; and then I can leave my law office 
and live a free and easy life. The truth of the matter 
is, this law business is a bore. I can hardly make 
enough at it to keep a respectable coat on my back. 
There are too many lawyers now-a-days, and I think I 
shall quit the profession. I am going to get married 
and spend money. 

Charles. I must leave you now. I have an engage¬ 
ment with John Jenkins. 

John. Come to my room at seven o’clock. 

Charles. I will, and may we both be successful. 
(Exit Charles.) 

Sce’ste II .—A Room, in Mr. Cobh’s House. Anna Cobb, Ellen 
Cobb, John Robb and Charles Wylie discovered. While 
the conversation is going on between Ellen and Charles, 
John and Anna should be seated at back of stage, appar¬ 
ently engaged in conversation. 

Ellen. And so you had some hesitation about call¬ 
ing this evening, had you, Mr. Wylie? Mr. Robb inti¬ 
mated as much when he came in. 

Charles. Well, you see, you were both entire strang¬ 
ers, and I thought you might consider it presumptuous 
in me to call. 

Ellen. Oh, no, not at all. We are always glad to 
form new acquaintances. I presume you belong to the 
aristocracy, and we are always ticulated to mix with 
highfaluters and highflyers. 

Charles (aside). If her parents are so wealthy, they 
should have given her a better education and taught her 
to talk with more smoothness. (To Ellen). It is very 
pleasant, I know, to be thrown into the society of con¬ 
genial spirits. 

Ellen. Oh, yes, it is splendiferous and tip-top. I 
have seen many magnificent men in my day, but I don’t 
often see one so superabundantly superb as you are. 


90 


John Robb and Anna Cobb 


Charles (aside). By George! she’s going to do the 
courting herself. (To Ellen). And so you like my 
appearance, do you? 

Ellen. Oh, yes, you are a perfect highfaluter. 

Charles. I have always flattered myself that I was 
passably handsome, and it pleases me considerably to 
hear you coincide in my opinion. 

Ellen. I have always thought I should like to marry 
just such a man as you are. You are my style to a T. 

Charles (aside). Jerusalem! She’s going to take me 
by main force. I must make up my mind to marry her 
or I must make my exit immediately. The old gentle¬ 
man is worth half a million. I like the figure, and will 
propose to her if she does not get ahead and propose 
to me. (To Ellen). This is the first time I have met 
you, Miss Cobb, but I am very favorably impressed. I 
know that you move in the best circles, because I have 
been informed that your father is worth half a million 
dollars. I have always moved in the first circles myself, 
and I think we cannot but admire and respect each 
other. 

Ellen. Oh, yes, Mr. Wylie, I know I can always 
admire and respect you. I think I could love you, too, 
for you are such a fliptistical man. 

Charles (aside.) She’s coming to the point. I never 
knew a lady to make such rapid progression. (To 
Ellen). And you think you could love me, Miss Cobb? 

Ellen. Oh, yes, I feel sure of it. 

Charles (aside). I’d like to inquire about her fath¬ 
er’s money; but I suppose that wouldn’t do; I might 
ruin my prospects, which, at present, seem very bright 
and encouraging. (To Ellen.) If you feel sure you 
can love me, I will come to the point at once. This is 
our first meeting, but when we know and feel that we 
can love each other there can be no impropriety in pro¬ 
posing. I have known of persons entering into engage- 


John Robb and Anna Cobb 


91 


ments of matrimony without ever having seen each 
other. I do not approve of that plan, of course. Do 
you, Miss Cobb? 

Ellen. Oh, of course not; but then you are such a 
splendiferous, tip-topical man. 

Charles {aside). There she goes again. {To Ellen). 
We have seen each other—we feel that we can love each 
other; therefore I now propose. Will you be my wife? 

Ellen. Yes. Any woman would feel honored to 
have such a husband. 

Charles. Thank you. When shall we be married ? 

Ellen. I can be ready in two weeks. 

John {coming forward, leading Anna). Allow me to 
present my promised wife. Anna has consented to 
be mine, and I believe I am the happiest man in exist¬ 
ence. 

Charles. With one exception. I believe I am the 
happiest man. At least I am equally as happy as 
you are. Ellen has consented to be my wife. 

Anna. Oh, Ellen, have you? 

Ellen. Yes, and I think I have secured an em¬ 
blematical and splendiferous husband. 

Anna. But he cannot be so gentle and so noble as 
my dear John. 

John. It is lucky we came to-night, isn’t it, Charles ? 

Charles. Yes, we can rejoice all our lives over this 
night. 

Anna. Here comes father and mother. 

Enter Mr. and Mrs. Cobb. 

Mr. Cobb. Good evening, friends. 

John. Allow me to present my friend, Mr. Charles 
Wylie. 

Mr. Cobb {shaking hands). I am glad to meet you. 

Mrs. Cobb. Be seated, gentlemen. {John and 
Charles seat themselves.) 

John. There has been some important business 
transacted here since you went away. 


92 


John Robb and Anna Cobb 


Mr. Cobb. Ah, indeed! May I enquire the nature 
of the business? 

John. Your daughter Anna has consented to marry 
me, and your daughter Ellen has consented to marry 
my friend Charles Wylie, provided, of course, that you 
and Mrs. Cobb do not object. 

Mrs. Cobb. I do not object—no, not at all. 

Mr. Cobb. Is this true, Anna? 

Anna. It is. 

Mrs. Cobb. Is this true, Ellen? 

Ellen. It is. 

John. Are you willing to give Anna to me? 

Charles. Are you willing to let me be a kind hus¬ 
band to Ellen? 

Mr. Cobb. Certainly, certainly. I am willing that 
my nieces should do their own selecting. 

John and Charles. (In astonishment.) Your nieces! 

Mr. Cobb. Yes, my nieces, Anna and Ellen. Are 
you surprised to learn that they are my nieces? 

John. Yes, I thought—that is—I always under¬ 
stood— 

Mr. Cobb. You understood that they were my 
daughters. 

Mrs. Cobb. But they are not. They are Mr. Cobb’s 
brother’s daughters. 

J ohn. J erusalem! 

Charles. Jehosophat! 

Mr. Cobb. Is there anything surprising in that? 
You will like them quite as well as if they were my 
daughters. If riot, you will not be worthy of them. 

Charles. (Aside.) Oh, they’d do if they had the 
money. 

John. (Aside.) The half million has vanished. 
Thunder! Isn’t this provoking? 

Mrs. Cobb. They always called us father and 
mother since they have been with us, and people have 
believed that they were our children. 


John Robb and Anna Cobb 


93 


John. (Aside to Charles.) What are you going to 
do about it? 

Charles. Do about it ? I’m going to fly on the wings 
of the wind. Do you think I’d marry that uncivilized 
and uncultivated girl, when she hasn’t got a cent ? She 
ought to be hung for not being a daughter of this old 
rascal. What are you going to do? 

John. I’m going to face the music and marry Anna, 
according to promise. She can give me love if she 
can’t give me money. I can give her my lcve, and to¬ 
gether we can work for money. 

Charles. Oh, you’re a dunce! Destruction stares 
you in the face. (To the others.) Well, good-bye; 
I must go now. 

Ellen. (Coming to him.) You will return soon. 

Charles. Certainly. (Aside.) Probably in a thou¬ 
sand years. 

Mr. Cobb. It looks to me, Mr. Wylie, as if you were 
going to desert my niece merely because you have found 
that she is not my daughter. 

Charles. Well, to make a clean breast of it, that is 
the reason. I asked her to marry because I supposed 
she was a daughter of yours, and would come into pos¬ 
session of a fine fortune soon. 

Ellen. Ugly, hateful, pusillanimous rascal! 

Mr. Cobb. Dog! 

Mrs. Cobb. Villain! 

Charles. This place is becoming distressingly warm; 
I shall retire. 

Mr. Cobb. I want to kick you out; but first I want 
to tell you that Ellen has one hundred thousand dollars 
in her own right. 

Charles. Jupiter! Ellen, it was a mistake. I take 
it all back. 

Ellen. (Striking an attitude.) Diabolical villain, 
flee, or I shall immediately put a nose on you. 

Charles. (Aside.) I guess she’d better take some 
of her money and buy some education and refinement. 


94 


A Visit from the Smiths 


Mr. Cobb. Go, or I will crush you into a thousand 
atoms. 

Charles . Well, I’m the most unlucky fellow on this 
side of the Atlantic. Can’t you forgive me, Ellen? 

Ellen. Go, or I’ll split your head open. 

Charles. Confound the luck! (Exit Charles.) 

Anna. (To John.) Do you wish to leave me, also? 

John. No, never! I will stand by the flag, and be 
a faithful husband always. I am not well off as this 
world goes, but I can work to support you. 

Mr. Cobb. Brave boy! 

Mrs. Cobb. Noble gentleman! 

Anna. But I have some money—haven’t I, uncle? 

Mr. Cobb. Yes, she has also one hundred thousand 
dollars in her own right. My brother made a grand 
strike in the oil regions of Oklahoma, and he left his 
two children, Anna and Ellen, in comfortable circum¬ 
stances. You have won a woman who will make you 
an excellent wife. Take her, and may you always be 
prosperous and happy. 

John. (Taking Anna by the hand.) For your kind 
wishes, Mr. and Mrs. Cobb, and (turning to Audience) 
for your kind attention, friends, to our little piece, you 
have the sincere thanks of John Robb. 

Anna. And Anna Cobb. 

Curtain. 

A VISIT FROM THE SMITHS 


CHARACTERS 
Mr. John Jenkins, A farmer. 

Mrs. Jane Jenkins, His wife. 

Ebenezer John Jenkins, Their son. 

Mrs. Melinda Smith, A lady from the city. 
Washington Smith, 

Melinda Elvira Smith, 

John Francis Smith, Smith s dhildren. 

Melissa Jane Smith, J 



A Visit from the Smiths 


95 


Scene —A room in the Jenkins house. Mr. and Mrs. 

Jenkins discovered. 

Jane. Would you believe it, John, Melinda Smith 
has writ me a letter in which she says that she’s a 
cornin’ here to spend a few days in our “sylvan shade,” 
as she calls it. She sez as how the city is too awful hot, 
and she can’t endure it. 

John. Wall, she’s rich; why doesn’t she go to Atlan¬ 
tic City or the mountains, or some other place, and not 
come here a troublin’ us ? I reckon she’ll bring her hull 
family along. 

Jane. Yes, she writes that she will be accompanied 
with her four children. I’m sure I’d a heap ruther 
she’d stay to hum, but I s’pose we’ll have to be decent 
with her and treat her perlitely. 

John. I reckon she has forgot the time when I went 
to the city and stopped at her house and she acted so 
mighty cool she froze me out. I kalkilate Smith is a 
goin’ down hill now, or he wouldn’t send her here. He 
can’t afford to pay four dollars a day for ’em at the big 
hotels, and so he sends ’em off here to stay awhile, to 
make believe they’ve been to the sea-shore or some other 
big waterin’ place. I kalkilate I’ll turn the cold shoul¬ 
der too, jest as Melinda did when I went to Smith’s 
about two years ago. Ah! I know these highfalutin’ 
folks. Some of them ain’t nothin’ but reg’lar sponges. 

Jane. Of course I don’t want to be troubled with 
the Smiths any more’n you do, but I s’pose we’d better 
not be too cool with ’em, for they’d be likely to tell that 
we hadn’t treated ’em decent. I guess we can put up 
with the trouble for a week or two. 

John. A week or two! Jest as likely as not she’ll 
stay two months, and I’m purty sartin I can’t have all 
them children a whoopin’ around me fur that length of 
time. Such a thing couldn’t be expected. 

Jane. And our dear Ebenezer John—jest as like as 
not, the Smith children will upset him, and worry him, 


96 


A Visit from the Smiths 


and I couldn’t endure that, you know. It would raise 
my dander instantaneously. 

John. The Smith children shan’t fight our Ebenezer 
John— no, sir! If they commence to over-ride and 
crush down our Ebenezer John, there will be a rumpus; 
yes, sir, a regular hullabaloo! I can’t have Ebenezer 
John crushed down by a Smith, no, sir ee. 

Jane. It rejoices me to hear you speak that way, 
John. Let us always stand up for Ebenezer John, and 
be dutiful parents, and I have no doubt he will some¬ 
time rise to be a great centrifugal man. 

John. Yes, that’s so. I intend to do my duty faith¬ 
fully to my country and to my Ebenezer John, and it 
’pears to me, Jane, that Ebenezer John will rise, and 
continue to rise, until he shall set in the Presidential 
chair, or stand among the Congressionals at Wash¬ 
ington. 

Jane. Pooh, John! you look too high. For my 
part, I ain’t expectin’ Ebenezer John to rise higher’n 
a preacher; but in course if he should git to be a Con¬ 
gressional, I should rejoice consid’ably. 

Enter Ebenezer John. 

Ebenezer John. I say, marm, I want a hunk of 
’lasses candy. 

Jane. You shall have it, my dear. I shall allers 
endeavor to supply all your wants, out’ard and in’ard, 
my dear Ebenezer John. (Hands a piece of candy to 
Ebenezer John.) 

Ebenezer John. I tell you, marm, you’re a hunky 
old gal. 

Jane. I shall allers endeavor to do my duty to you, 
Ebenezer John, and I have no doubt you will one day 
be an ornamentical to society. 

Ebenezer John. Old gal, you talk too much. Dad, 
I want my wagon mended, and you needn’t be all day 
about it, either. 


A Visit from the Smiths 


97 


John (Going.) Yes, my dear Ebenezer John, I will 
mend it. It gives me great pleasure to be able to do 
anything to please you. I shall allers endeavor to do 
my duty— 

Ebenezer John. Old man, you talk too much too. I 
want you to go and bring me a few early apples from 
the orchard, and see that you don’t put your big feet on 
none of my playthings out there on the path. Don’t 
be gone all day, either, for I want an apple awful bad. 

John. I will hurry, my son. 

Ebenezer John. Well, hurry up, and don’t stand 
there talking all day. You can mend the wagon when 
you come back. (Exit John Jenkins.) 

Ebenezer John. Dad is a regular old gas-house. 

Jane. Yes, Ebenezer John, he does talk a great deal. 

Ebenezer John. And you are about ditto. 

Jane. Why, my son, you do not think I talk too 
much, do you? 

Ebenezer John. Well, now, I do. If I couldn’t talk 
better than you two old sticks, I think I’d hold my 
tongue. I guess I must have a smoke. (Takes out 
cigar, strikes a light, and commences to smoke.) Now, 
old gal, fly around and get dinner, for I am most tar¬ 
nation hungry. 

Jane. Yes, dear Ebenezer John, I will hurry up the 
dinner. 

Ebenezer John. (Looking out of the window.) Hold 
on! Jerusalem! What’s all this a cornin’ up the road? 
And they’re a cornin’ here, too. I’ll be switched if I 
don’t think it’s some old gal a cornin’ and bringing her 
Sunday-school class along. 

Jane. (Going to window.) I s’pose it’s Mrs. Smith 
a cornin’. 

Ebenezer John. And who’s Mrs. Smith, I’d like to 
know ? 

Jane. She’s your aunt, and she lives in the city. 
She’s a cornin’ here to stay a few weeks. 


98 A Visit from the Smiths 

Ehenezer John. And the youngsters—who do they 
belong to? 

Jane. They are her children. 

Ehenezer John. (Counting.) One, two, three, four. 
Goodness gracious; what a lot! I guess I’ll make them 
little Smiths stand around. 

Jane. That’s right, Ebenezer John. Don’t let them 
impose upon you. - 

Ehenezer John. Here they come a spanging right 
up to the door. Hi! isn’t that little 'un a caution? 
Marm, hadn’t you better open the door and let them 
come in? (Jane opens door.) 

Enter Mrs. Melinda Smith, Washington Smith, Melinda 
Elvira Smith, John Francis Smith and Melissa 
Jane Smith. 

Mrs. Smith. My dear Jane Jenkins, how do you do? 
I am so glad to see you. (Kisses her.) 

Jane. Oh, I am pretty well. How have you been? 

Mrs. Smith. I have been well, but it is so hot in the 
city, and so tiresome to live where you can’t see the 
green grass and the beautiful trees. You have such a 
delightful place here, my dear Jane Jenkins—so cool— 
so pleasant. You are certainly the happiest woman on 
the face of the earth. But here’s my children. This 
is Washington; he is the oldest, and he’s an excellent 
boy, and so very intelligent for one of his age. Come 
here, Washington, and shake hands with your Aunt 
Jane. (Washington shakes hands with Mrs. Jenkins.) 

Jane. Why, you are growin’ dreadful fast. The last 
time I seed you, you were jest a little feller. 

Washington. Yes, I suppose so. But I want to ask 
you if there’s any good places around here for huntin’ 
and fishin’. 

Jane. Yes, some splendiferous places. 

Mrs. Smith. Now here’s Melinda Elvira. She’s a 
promising young lady, and she’s studying history, and 
philosophy, and gymnastics, and a great many other 
things. 


A Visit from the Smiths 


99 


Ebenezer John (To John Francis Smith.) I say, 
little feller, why didn’t you bring the whole family with 
you? 

John Francis. I guess we did. You see we intend 
to stay awhile, and we ain’t a goin’ to pay nothin’ for 
our boardin’ nuther. Ma says you are a stupid set 
down here, and don’t know nothin’, and we can just as 
well stay here this summer as not. 

Ebenezer John. My eyes! Ain’t you a buster? I 
calculate, little feller, that you’ll find out mighty quick 
if we don’t know a thing or two. (To Mrs. Jenkins.) 
Marm, do you know what this little rag-tag says? 

Jane. No. 

Ebenezer John. Well, he says that his marm says 
that we are all a stupid set down here, and don’t know 
nothin’, and that they are a goin’ to board here all sum¬ 
mer, and not pay a cent. 

Mrs. Smith. Oh, Jane, that’s a mistake! John 
Francis is such a boy to talk. But you mustn’t mind 
what John Francis says. 

John Francis. Now, ma, you did say it, and you 
needn’t try to crawl out of it. 

Mrs. Smith. Hush, John Francis. Hadn’t you and 
this boy better run out and play? 

Ebenezer John. Well, I guess not. I don’t play 
with little snipes from the city. I’m a little above that. 
What do you take me for? 

John Francis. I guess I’m as good as you, if I ain’t 
quite as big. I think I’m a big sight better. These 
country boys don’t know much. 

Ebenezer John. You little ragamuffin, you’d better 
dry up mighty quick, or I’ll put a nose on you. 

John Francis. Oh, I ain’t afeard of you. You are 
nothin’ but a punkin’. 

Ebenezer John. Marm, I guess I’ll take off my coat 
and give this boy a wallopin’. 


100 


A Visit from the Smiths 


Washington. (To Ebenezer John.) I tell you, little 
'un, you’d better dry up. If there’s to be any fightin’ 

I want to have a finger in the pie. 

Jane. Don’t you talk that way to my Ebenezer John. 
It shan’t be did. I will stand up for Ebenezer John 
and see that he shall not be bamboozled by any nasty 
upstarts from the city. 

Melinda Elvira. Oh, ma, let us go to another house. 
My head aches dreadfully, and I am so tired. I couldn’t 
live in this horrid heathenish place. I think these peo¬ 
ple don’t know anything at all. 

Melissa Jane. Oh, no, don’t let us go. I want to 
stay here and live on butter and milk. 

Ebenezer John. And do you think we are goin’ to 
keep all you little upstarts in butter and milk ? I think 
not. Dad and marm have jest about as much as they 
can do to attend to me, and I calculate I’m boss around 
here. You shan't stay. So that point is decided. I 
did think when you came that I would allow you to 
stay a few days, and have a spot of fun, but you don’t 
suit me—not by a long shot. So the sooner you all git 
up and travel, the better it will be for you. You needn’t 
take the trouble to take off your hats, for you’d jest 
have to put them on again. If you are relations of ours, 
I don’t wish to claim you any longer. ' 

Mrs. Smith. (Laughs.) Ha, ha! Oh, Jane Jenkins, 
what a witty boy you have! What is his name? 

Jane. Ebenezer John. 

Mrs. Smith. What a beautiful name, and how full of 
fun he is! Well, I guess I’ll take off my bonnet and 
sit down and rest a spell. 

Ebenezer John. Old gal, you needn’t go to the 
trouble of taking off your bunnit. I don’t like you and 
your family of young upstarts, and I calculate you’d 
better travel! 

Jane. Oh, Ebenezer John, you shu’d let them stay 
a day or two. 


A Visit from the Smiths 


101 


Ebenezer John. No, sir—not by a jugfull. I have 
set down my foot and said the word, and I am going to 
stick to it. So, marm, you dry up. 

Mrs. Smith. (Angrily.) You young reprobate, you 
wish to rule your mother’s house, do you? If you were 
a boy of mine, I’d wallop you like blazes. 

Ebenezer John. Shut up, old woman, or you’ll get 
into trouble. 

Washington. I guess it is about time for me to say 
something. Look here, young Jenkins, you shan’t talk 
to my ma in that way. You didn’t have a good bring¬ 
ing up, and you deserve to be taken down and spanked. 

Jane. Stop your noise, Washington*Smith, and leave 
my house. No person shall speak unkindly to Ebenezer 
John—leastwise no Smith shall. Pick up your traps 
and be off. I declare, it puts me all in a flame of indig¬ 
nation to hear a young shallow-pated Smith say that 
Ebenezer John was not brought up in the right way. 
I’ll not have it. Pick up your traps and be off, I say. 

Mrs. Smith. Oh, Jane, don’t mind the children’s talk. 
Children will be children, and there’s no way to avoid it. 

Jane. I’ll take the nasty rascal’s head off if he says 
a word ag’in Ebenezer John. 

Melinda Elvira. Oh,.ma, let us go. Let us not stay 
here and be jawed by these stupid country people. 

Melissa Jane. Yes, let us go, ma. I hate these peo¬ 
ple; they don’t know anything, and they are no rela¬ 
tions of mine. 

Enter John Jenkins. 

John. How do you do? 

Ebenezer John. We’ve had a reg’lar rumpus, dad, 
so don’t go to palaverin’ around. These people are 
about to take their departure, and I don’t want you to 
detain them. 

Jane. One of these nasty nice boys has had the 
imperdence to talk sassy to our Ebenezer John, and my 
dander has riz to its highest pitch. 


102 


A Row in the Kitchen 


John. Talkin’ sassy to Ebenezer John, eh? Move 
your boots, all of you, on the double-quick, or I’ll make 
a scatteration amongst you. (To Mrs. Smith.) Woman, 
you turned the cold shoulder to me once when I went 
to the city. Now I return the compliment and present 
some cold shoulder to you. 

Mrs. Smith. You are a beautiful man, now, ain’t 
you? Come, Washington, Melinda Elvira, John Fran¬ 
cis and Melissa Jane, we will go immediately. I don’t 
want to stay half a minute among such rough, unculti¬ 
vated people. 

John Francis. (To Ebeneser John.) I’ll punch your 
head some day, see if I don’t. 

Ebenezer John. All right, little grunter, I’ll be ready 
for you. Good-bye, up-stuck Smiths. Hurrah for the 
sponges! (Exit Mrs. Smith, Washington, Melinda 
Elvira, John Francis and Melissa Jane.) 

Curtain. 

A ROW IN THE KITCHEN 


- CHARACTERS 
Mr. John Blobbs, A talkative man. 

Mrs Jane Jemima Blobbs, A woman with a disposition 
to have her own way in the kitchen. 

Mrs. Mewilda Jones, Jane Jemima's mother. 

Scene —A kitchen. Jane Jemima preparing breakfast. 
John seated. 

John. Jane Jemima! 

Jane Jemima. What? 

John. My dear Jane Jemima, don’t be so abrupt— 
so harsh—so ruffled, when you speak to me. It grates 
upon the ears and unstrings the nerves to hear you say 
•what in that manner. 

Jane Jemima. You talk too much. 

John. Oh, my dear Jane Jemima! You wrong me. 
1 talk too much! I? The idea is preposterous. Why, 



A Row in the Kitchen 103 

Jane Jemima, I am considered a very quiet man. Rob¬ 
ert Smith told Jim Hays that Sam Raynor said that I 
would be a mighty clever man if I would only talk 
more. I talk too much? Why, the idea is laughable, 
and at the same time preposterous. 

Jane Jemima. You must have been to the tavern 
this morning. Your tongue is loose. 

John. (Feeling his tongue.) Tongue loose? Why, 
so it is. But isn’t everybody’s tongue loose? 

Jane Jemima. I am more than ever convinced that 
you have been to the tavern. 

John. To the tavern? The idea is preposterous. 
Why, Jane Jemima, ’tis but a few minutes since I got 
out of bed. I go to the tavern! Why, Jane Jemima, 
I am morally opposed to taverns. Have you never 
heard me express my views respecting a prohibitory 
liquor law? I have always been in favor of a pro¬ 
hibitory liquor law. Yes, Jane Jemima, decidedly in 
favor of a prohibitory liquor law. And I have said— 

Jane Jemima. There, that will do. I do not want to 
hear your views now. 

John. You don’t? Well, now, that’s strange. Some 
people like to hear me talk, and I cannot understand 
why you do not. 

Jane Jemima. Oh, I hear too much of your palaver. 

John. Palaver! Yes, that’s a Latin word. It is 
derived from palate and lava, and signifies something 
very good. 

Jane Jemima. Pooh! John Blobbs, you’re a goose. 
It doesn’t mean anything of the kind. 

John. Well, now, I was always under that impres¬ 
sion. However, if you say so I’ll give it up. I have 
great confidence in your judgment, Jane Jemima. You 
are well versed in the arts and sciences, and I am glad 
I married you. 

Jane Jemima. I can’t say as much. 

John. As much as what? 


104 


A Row in the Kitchen 


Jane Jemima. You are very dull. I can t say that I 
am glad I married you. 

John. You can’t? I’m surprised. I thought you 
were pleased. Now, Jane Jemima, look at the case. I 
am a well-doing man— 

Jane Jemima. You are a blatherskite. 

John. Another Latin word. How proud I am of 
you, Jane Jemima. I always said I would marry a 
woman wh had Latin upon her tongue. 

Jane Jemima. Are you going to sit there and talk 
all day? 

John. That’s a question, Jane Jemima, I have not 
thought upon. Let me see. (Thoughtfully.) Am I going 
to sit here and talk all day? I can answer that in the 
negative. That is not my intention. Every man has a 
work to do, therefore it behooves him to be up and to 
be stirring around. If a man should sit on a chair and 
talk all day he would not accomplish anything. No, this 
will not do. We are placed here upon the earth, and it 
seems to be the design that we should work—not work 
a day and rest a day, but work, work, work, all the 
time. We should be busy, because if we do not be busy 
we cannot be happy. That seems to be one of the laws 
of nature. And I find, too, that if we wish to be happy 
we must strive to make others happy. We must not be 
selfish—we must not think of self and work for self— 
we must think of and work for others; in this way we 
will obtain true happiness. And we should be busy 
continually—not for the purpose of laying up wealth, 
because wealth will never bring happiness, but be¬ 
cause— 

Jane Jemima. John, if you don’t shut up I’ll hit you 
with this spoon. 

John. Now, Jane Jemima, that would be cruel. We 
should never lift a spoon against a brother, much less 
against a husband. Spoons were made to lift grease 
with—also potatoes—also, tomatoes, and many other 
vegetables. Therefore a spoon should not be lifted 


A Row in the Kitchen 


105 


against a brother. In this world, spoons and other 
things are often applied to a wrong use. Thus, for 
instance, wheat is undoubtedly intended to be made into 
bread, but some people have been so reckless and so 
thoughtless as to make it into whiskey. This is entirely 
wrong. I might go on and name many articles that are 
wrongly appropriated and used, but I feel that it is 
almost useless. You ean see at a glance that things are 
often misapplied. I was conversing on this same sub¬ 
ject some time ago with Abraham Stokes, and he agreed 
with me in every particular. I do not, as a general 
thing, admire those persons who agree with me in every¬ 
thing I say, but in this case there was no alternative. 
I made it so clear, it was impossible for him to see it 
in any other light. He gave me credit for using forcible 
language, and he said that my arguments were solid, 
sound and convincing. I like to see a man when he 
goes into an argument, argue well, and not argue in a 
bungling and scattered way. He should make his argu¬ 
ment like a new and a firm stone wall. It should be 
so that it could not be broken down, climbed over or 
crawled under. I have always felt that— 

Jane Jemima. Oh, dear! Are you not going to stop ? 

John. That is another moral question, which, if you 
will give me time, I will proceed to answer. Why 
should I stop? As long as I can do the smallest par¬ 
ticle of good—mind, I say the smallest particle—it is 
my duty to keep on. There are some men who have 
no perseverance—none at all. Such men make but a 
poor show in the world, and always come out at the lit¬ 
tle end of the horn. Perseverance is a noble virtue. 
Without perseverance we can accomplish nothing. In¬ 
deed, it has passed into a proverb that, “Perseverance 
conquers all things.” Things may seem sadly out of 
fix; troubles may overtake us; the day may seem dark, 
and cloudy, and gloomy; but if we persevere, the day 
will break gloriously, brightly, beautifully, and we can 
then go forward with a light heart and a merry coun- 


106 


A Row in the Kitchen 


tenance. How many there are who sink down and 
give up in the fight! How many there are who lack 
perseverance! I have often thought on this matter, and 
I have thought, too, that if I could infuse perseverance 
into the people this world would be a better world. I 
would like to see more get-up-and-go, as it were, in the 
people. 

Jane Jemima. And I’d like to see some of it in you, 
just now. 

John. Now, Jane Jemima, that is unkind in you. 
You know I have always been considered a working, 
go-ahead-ative fellow. I have always been an early 
riser—indeed, I have risen with the lark for many 
years. I do not think I am quite well this morning, 
or rather I do think that I am not quite well this morn¬ 
ing, and if I feel disposed to sit around, you must not 
think hard of it. I have been a hard worker, too. I 
worked hard before I knew you, and I expect to work 
all my life. As I before remarked, a person will be 
happier if he will work and be busy. My dear Jane 
Jemima, as I am unwell this morning I would like to 
have some sausages fried for breakfast. Will you fry 
them? 

Jane Jemima. No! 

John. How short, how decided, and how very much 
to the point. No! There is no circumlocution there. 
You express yourself clearly, forcibly, and distinctly,, 
in one word. You mean what you say, do you, Jane 
Jemima? 

Jane Jemima. Yes, you old goose! 

John. Another short, sharp, and decisive answer. 
And then you make your answer more forcible by 
applying the epithet of old goose. Dear Jane Jemima, 
you do not mean what you say! 

Jane Jemima. I do! 

John. Then I beg leave to say that you shall fry 
some sausages for breakfast. 

Jane Jemima. Well, I guess we’ll see about that. 


A Row in the Kitchen 


107 


John. Jane Jemima Blobbs, I am a quiet man; you 
are well aware of that fact. But if I am a quiet man, 
I am also a deep man. “Still waters run deep,” you 
know. I do not often say a thing must be done; I do 
not often set my foot down, Jane Jemima Blobbs; but 
when I do set my foot down, it is there, and there it 
remains. I am not well this morning, and I have re¬ 
quested you to fry some sausages for breakfast and you 
have refused. Now, Jane Jemima, I say you shall fry 
them. Do you understand? 

Jane Jemima. I think you had better go to bed; 
your head isn’t level. 

John. But I will demonstrate to you that my head is 
level. You have too much audacity, Jane Jemima. 
Now, proceed with the sausages. 

Jane Jemima. I will not! 

John. You will not! Did a wife ever speak so to a 
husband before ? I am astonished! Proceed to fry the 
sausages, or there will be a coolness in the family. 

Jane Jemima. I’m sure I don’t care. 

John. Matters have now narrowed down to a fine 
point. I say fry; you say no fry. Which is the 
stronger person? Hand me that spoon, and prepare 
for battle. 

Jane Jemima. (Throwing spoon.) There, take it, 
you old dolt! 

John. You throw spoons at me? This must not be 
done any more. Chieftains, ye are for instant battle. 

Jane Jemima. John, you are not well this morning; 
will you not retire? 

John. Retire? No! I say fry the sausages! 

Jane Jemima. And I say again, I will not. 

John. Then I shall compel you. (Advances with 
spoon in hand, as if to strike.) 

Jane Jemima. (Screams.) Oh! Oh! Murder! Mur¬ 
der! Mother, come here! Mother! Come! Come! 

John. Be silent, and proceed with your work. 


108 


A Row in the Kitchen 


Jane Jemima. (Screams.) Oh! Oh! Murder! Mur¬ 
der! Help! 

Enter Mrs. Mewilda Jones. 

Mewilda. What—what’s this? Where’s the mur¬ 
derer ? 

Jane Jemima. (Pointing to John.) There! There! 
See! He holds an awful spoon within his hand, and 
will strike me down! 

Mewilda. John, why is this? 

John. I will tell you, my most exemplary mother- 
in-law. You know that I have always been a working 
man. From my earliest infancy I have always consid¬ 
ered it the bounden duty of every man to be busy. I 
have always believed that we are required to work day 
after day. This morning I felt unwell; I feel unwell 
yet, and I think that any person who is unwell should 
never, never be required to work; and a person who is 
unwell should always receive the kind of food he craves. 
I therefore invited my wife—the partner of my joys 
and woes—to fry some sausages for breakfast. She 
refused. I attempted to reason the case; but the more 
I reasoned, the more obstinate and determined she be¬ 
came. When a wife steps from the path—when she 
goes beyond reason and persuasion—it bocomes the 
bounden duty of her husband to correct her, and set 
her again upon the right road. I believed it my duty 
to chastise Jane Jemima, and I was about to do so, 
when her screams brought you into the room. Speak, 
my almost perfect mother-in-law, and tell me if I am 
not in the right. 

Mewilda. Yes, John, you certainly are; and it is 
Jane Jemima’s duty to fry the sausages. 

Jane Jemima. But I will not fry them— so, now! 

John. Then I shall immediately proceed to compel 
you. 

Mewilda. That is right, John—that is right! Rule 
your house, or shut up shop. Jane Jemima is a daugh- 


A Row in the Kitchen 


109 


ter of mine, but in the face of this I want her to do 
her duty. Jane Jemima, be wise. 

John. You have heard your mother’s words. Do 
you relent? Will you, Jane Jemima—dear Jane 
Jemima—will you fry the sausages ? 

Jane. No! no! NO! (Speaks loader each time as 
she repeats the word No.) Do you understand that? 

John. Then the climax has arrived. (Raises the 
spoon.) I raise my hand to strike my wife—the partner 
of my joys and woes. 

Jane Jemima. I leave you, John Blobbs! Good-by! 
(Exit hastily.) 

John. What means this? Has she flown? 

Mewilda. John, you are right. I applaud you. You 
should do your duty, regardless of consequences. 

John. I should rule my house—shouldn’t I? 

Mewilda. Certainly. 

John. I have always been a supporter of this doc¬ 
trine. I do not think it looks well in the eyes of the 
world when a woman rules the roost and manages the 
affairs of the entire household. The husband is in¬ 
tended to be the head and the chief, and when he com¬ 
mands the wife should obey. 

Mewilda. That’s true. 

John. And when the husband says fry sausages, the 
sausages should be fried. 

Mewilda. That’s true. 

John. But if Jane Jemima should leave the old roof- 
tree I suppose I should feel sad. Wonder where she 
will go? Is it my duty to put forth my hand and 
arrest her in her flight ? 

Mewilda. No, John. Rather you should look after 
those who are left under your roof. 

John. That’s you, Mrs. Jones. And, let’s see—I’m 
left too. Yes, I’m here. Then I should look after 
myself, and you, my magnificent mother-in-law—will 
you just step out and see if Jane Jemima has left the 
house ? 


110 


A Row in the Kitchen 


Mewilda. Yes, poor dear John. (Exit Mewilda.) 

John. Poor, dear John. Gracious! how tender the 
woman is! If Jane Jemima has flown, could I—I de¬ 
clare the idea startles me—could I marry Mrs. Jones? 
What an excellent companion she would be! So kind, 
so good, so tender. Yes, the die is cast! I will marry 
the mother and let the daughter go. Mrs. Jones would 
fry sausages for me—I know she would. She could 
not refuse, because she is so kind and obliging. (Re¬ 
enter Mezoilda.) Well, did you see Jane Jemima? 

Mewilda. No. I think she is gone. Here is a note 
for you. 

John. (Opens and reads note.) “Tyrannical husband 
I go—I leave your house. I will marry another man— 
one who is a man, and not a tyrant. Your much abused 
wife, Jane Jemima.” Doesn’t that beat the dickens? 
I beg your pardon, magnificent mother-in-law. I should 
not have said dickens in your presence, although I 
stoutly believe and have always maintained that dickens 
is not a swearing word. I was astonished, and I spoke 
without taking a thought. 

Mewilda. Ah, yes, John, good man, I understand 
and I appreciate you. You are a noble man—so just 
and so wise. 

John. Do you really think so? 

Mewilda. I do. 

John. I thank you, Mrs. Jones, for your exalted 
opinion. It makes me happy to know that I am appre¬ 
ciated by you. This has been the one great trial of my 
life. I have often felt that I was not appreciated. 

Mewilda. Well, you can rest assured that there is 
one who appreciates your nobleness of purpose and 
uprightness of character. Would that there were more 
men like you. 

John. (Aside.) That’s just what Jane Jemima said 
before we plunged into the sea of matrimony. (To Me¬ 
wilda.) I declare, magnificent mother-in-law, you make 


A Row in the Kitchen 


111 


me feel as happy as a big sun-flower, so to speak. I 
am delighted all over my head. Mewilda Jones, will 
you be my wife? 

Mewilda. (Pretending surprise.) Goodness gracious! 

John. Are you surprised? 

Mewilda. (Sighs.) Oh, I shall faint. 

John. Oh, don’t! I wouldn’t know how to take care 
of you. 

Mewilda. I feel so—so—so— 

John. So collapsed? Is that what you mean? 

Mewilda. No—I—oh, how delightful! 

John. If I only had a sassinger to give you I reckon 
you’d be all right. Well, what do you say? Don’t 
keep me in suspense. 

Meivilda. But it was so sudden. 

John. If it was a sudden question it requires a sud¬ 
den answer. Speak! 

Mewilda. Yes, here’s my hand. I consent. I will 
be your wife. 

John. (Taking her hand.) I will endeavor to strew 
your path with flowers, and make you a happy wife. 

Mewilda. Oh, yes, John, I know you will—you are 
so good and so noble. 

John. When shall we be married? 

Mewilda. You forget, John; you must first obtain 
a divorce. 

John. Caesar Augustus! So I must! I declare, I 
had forgotten all about that. You will marry me after 
I have obtained the divorce? 

Mewilda. Yes, of course I will. Oh, John, you are 
so good and so noble! 

John. And you will fry sausages for me? 

Mewilda. Yes. 

John. Then go to work and fry some for breakfast. 

Mewilda. Willingly, John; you are so good and so 
noble. (Mewilda proceeds to fry the sausages.) 


112 


The Stage-Struck Clerk 


John. I am a happy man, although I am not quite 
well this morning. I have won a wife who will cheer¬ 
fully fry sausages. She is a good woman. 

Enter Jane Jemima. 


Thunderation! Where’d you come from? 

Jane Jemima. I came from out there. I’ve heard 
your plans. A pretty couple you are! Mother, I com¬ 
mand you to stop. I alone will fry John’s sausages. 

Mewilda. You shall not. You deserted him. 

John. (Aside.) I declare! Why, the whole family 
wants to fry the sausages now! / 

Jane Jemima. But I have returned. I claim my 
place in the kitchen and in John’s heart. 

John. And you shall have both, provided— 

Jane Jemima. What? 

John. You never fail to fry sausages' when I po¬ 
litely invite you to do so. 

Jane Jemima. I consent. 

John. Then here’s my hand. (She takes his hand , 
and they face the audience.) And here’s an end to A 
Row in the Kitchen. 

Curtain. 

THE STAGE-STRUCK CLERK 

Farce, in One Act and One Scene 
Costumes—Dresses of the present day. 

Properties. —Three desks and high stools, writing materials 
on each; three scrolls of pasteboard, strong enough to fight 
with; a bundle with a shield in it; a newspaper with a writ¬ 
ten paragraph in it; canes for Constable and Justice. 

CHARACTERS 


Mr. Hooker, an Attorney 
Tactic 1 

Victim }> his clerks 
Fag J 


Juliet 


Mr. Knitbrow, a Magis¬ 
trate 

A Constable 
Mrs. Dobson 
Fanny 
Snooks 


The Stage-Struck Clerk 


113 


Scene. — Mr. Hooker's office, with desks right and left; 
centre doors open, backed with interior of private office; 
Fag sitting at a desk, writing. 

Enter Mr. Hooker, with watch in his hand. 

Mr. Hooker. Ten o’clock, and neither Victim nor 
Tactic come? This won’t do. Tactic, no doubt, has 
some good reason; but, as for that fellow, Victim, if he 
goes on this way, I’ll discharge him. Fag, do you know 
where Mr. Victim is? 

Fag. No, sir. 

Mr. H. Well, then, when he comes,—that is, if the 
gentleman means to come at all,-—send him to my room. 
I want to speak with him. 

Fag. Yes, sir. (Exit Mr. Hooker.) Wants to speak 
with him! That’s comfortable! I know what the con¬ 
versation turns upon when the old man gives a special 
invitation. 

Enter Victim. 

O, Mr. Victim; Mr. Hooker says you come very late, 
and he wants to speak with you; you understand? 

Victim. Speak to me? What do I care? I am not 
the man to be afraid of him. But I say, Fag, did he 
look in a good humor? 

Fag. Yes, very—about as pleasant as when you let 
five dollars slip through a hole in your pocket. But 
you had better make haste and let him have his lecture 
out. Lectures, like ginger beer, gain strength by being 
bottled up. 

Vic. O, very well. Why, yes—it may as well be 
over soon. Is Tactic come? 

Fag. No. 

Vic. O, well—he will be in for it, as well as I. 
(Exit.) 

Enter Tactic, with a bundle. His eye is tinged, as if 
recovering from being black. Goes towards desk, 
and puts in bundle. 

Fag. Mr. Hooker has been inquiring after you. 


114 


The Stage-Struck Clerk 


Tactic. O, lie has, has he? 

Fag. He is not very well pleased at your being so 
late. 

Tac. Ha! 

Fag. You seem pretty easy, however. 

Tac. Always make a point of taking everything easy, 
and then all breezes are sure to blow over me. 

Fag. Ah, you are something like a man! you really 
carry things off in fine style. There’s that Victim has 
just gone up stairs talking big enough; but his knees 
were knocking every step he took. 

Tac. Victim! ha, ha, ha! My Pythias, my shadow, 
my scapegoat! Listen! listen, Timothy Fag, and I’ll 
read you something deuced droll. (Takes a newspaper 
out of his pocket and reads. Fag rises and comes for¬ 
ward.) “George Victim, clerk to Mr. Hooker, a re¬ 
spectable solicitor, was on Thursday last brought up 
before Mr. Knitbrow, sitting magistrate, ornamented 
with a furious black eye, and charged with creating a 
disturbance in the streets. Defendant, it appears, being 
in a state of intoxication, had amused himself by up¬ 
setting three oyster-stalls, and he was found by a police¬ 
man, in pugilistic encounter with three negro roust¬ 
abouts, friends of the proprietors.” 

Fag. And did Victim really perpetrate all this? 

Tac. No, not he. At least, he did it by proxy. I 
was the hero. Ecce signum! (Points to his eye.) 

Fag. You? Why, how came you to be called Vic¬ 
tim, of all the names in the world? 

Tac. Why, look here—old Knitbrow, you know, is a 
client of this house. When I was before him, “What’s 
your name, young man?” says he. Fiction was working 
in my heart, and Jackson was at the tip of my tongue^; 
but before I could get the word out, the old man begins, 
“I remember your face, young man. Don’t attempt to 
call yourself Smith, or Brown, or Johnson; you are one 


The Stage-Struck Clerk 


115 


of Mr. Hooker’s clerks. Mr. Hooker’s clerks are named 
Tactic, Victim, and Fag; therefore, Tactic, Victim, or 
Fag, you must be.” 

Fag. What an awful situation! Horrible! Write 
an account, and send it to the Herald. 

Tac. Yes, a magistrate who talks logically is ter¬ 
rible, indeed—terrible as unusual. I was so taken by 
surprise, that I nearly did a thing unusual to me. 

Fag. What was that? 

Tac. I nearly told the truth. 

Fag. How melancholy! 

Tac. I was just going to tell my real name, when 
Satan turned me from my purpose, in the shape of a 
newspaper reporter. There he was with his deuced 
note-book in hand, dressing up the case in a pleasant 
form for old Hooker to read, with his coffee and toast. 
I shuddered at the thought, and my trembling tongue 
said, “My name is George Victim.” 

Fag. I am deuced glad that your trembling tongue 
did not say Timothy Fag. 

• Tac. No, Fag; I had a special regard for you. 
(Aside.) Besides, Victim’s name came into my head 
first. (Aloud, striking his heart.) A lawyer’s clerk 
never draws a friend into a scrape—that is, unless it is 
to get out of one himself. 

Fag. Oh, that of course! but when old Knitbrow 
comes here, he will recognize you. 

Tac. Never fear that! The future I leave in the 
hand of fortune. Fortune, to be sure, does knock me 
about like a shuttle-cock; but like a shuttle-cock, I 
always come with the right end downwards. 

Fag. Ah, for all your deep play, you may some day 
come with the wrong end upwards. (Goes to desk, and 
sits.) 

Enter Victim. 

Victim. You will catch it, Tactic! I have had a 
lecture as long as a marriage settlement, with pro¬ 
visions for younger children. 


116 


The Stage-Struck Clerk 


Tac. Fear not for me. I shall do well enough. 

Enter Hoolcer. During the following dialogue, Fag and 

Victim are observing Hooker and Tactic. 

Tac. Good morning, sir. This weather agrees with 
you. You look uncommonly well. 

Mr. Hooker. Why, yes, Tactic, I am very well. 
(Aside.) There is some civility about this fellow. 
(Aloud.) But, Tactic, you are late today. 

Tac. Yes, contrary to my usual custom, I am. 

Fag. Ahem! 

Tac. But I knew the cause of benevolence would 
move you to look upon me with a lenient eye. 

Mr. H. The cause of Benevolence! What on earth 
do you mean? 

Tac. Why, sir, you know I live in Brooklyn. 

Mr. H. Yes—well? 

Tac. Passing by the river I heard the cry of a child 
in distress. 

Vic. (Aside.) What the deuce is coming now? 

Tac. I looked and saw a child, about four years old 
—it might be five—I won’t be positive, sir. 

Mr. H. Never mind that point, it is not material. 

Tac. No, sir; but you know I carry my regard for 
truth even to a fault. 

Fag. (Aside.) Oh, he’s too sincere! 

Tac. This child was in the water, struggling for its 
life. 

Vic. (Aside to Fag.) How affecting! Pull out your 
handkerchief! 

Tac. Sir, I ask you as a man—aye, and a benevolent 
man—when a fellow-creature was gasping in the agonies 
of death, was that a time to think of office hours? 

Mr. H. No, no, good Tactic! certainly not. 

Tac. In I jumped, saved the child, but got wet to 
the skin. You see these are not the clothes I wore 
yesterday. 


The Stage-Struck Clerk 


117 


Mr. H. I did not observe any difference; but I do 
not notice clothes. I must say, they look the same to 
me. 

Fag. (Aside.) Deuced strange if they did not. He 
has worn them for the last six months. What mon¬ 
strous impudence! 

Tac. The fact is, I stopped at the tailor’s to get a 
new suit. I hope I have fully accounted for being late, 
sir. 

Mr. H. Oh, certainly, certainly! you could not have 
done otherwise. 

Tac. There is a little request—no, I’m ashamed to 
make it. 

Mr. H. Speak "out, good Tactic. 

Fag. (Aside.) Poor creature, he’s too modest. 

Tac. Why, you see this suit of clothes comes upon 
me rather suddenly—I could not properly afford it. 
Could you make it convenient to advance me about thirty 
dollars? You see it was purely an accident that made 
me in want of the money. 

Vic. (Aside.) W'ell, may I be shot, if this does not 
beat all I ever heard of. 

Mr. H. Why, I don’t know; but, however, as your 
want was occasioned by your benevolence, I know not 
how to refuse you. (Puts his hand in his pocket.) Here 
—here are just six five dollar bills. 

Tac. My dear sir— 

Mr. H. Say nothing about it. You can pay me at 
your convenience. But I say, Tactic, let no one come 
into my room. I shall be very busy. (Exit Mr. 
Hooker.) 

Vic. (Rises and comes forward.) Bravo! Tactic— 
beautiful! Why, you have money lent you for coming 
late. 

Tac. Aye, aye; you never saw that sort of fun 
before. 

Vic. No, by the Lord Harry! 


118 


The Stage-Struck Clerk 


Tac. You see, my dear Victim, there are two sorts 
of excuses. One merely helps you out of a scrape; the 
other puts you in a better situation than if said scrape 
had never happened. I showed you a specimen of the 
last just now; the first I practice every hour. Any one 
can tell a lie; but it requires a superior genius to lie 
upon principle—scientifically. It requires quick and 
brilliant imagination, a ready flow of eloquence, a pre¬ 
possessing ease of address. A great liar must be a 
great man, to which the teller of truth is a mere log. 

Vic. Well, but how are you, Tactic? How did you 
get home last night? What a lark that was? 

Tac. O, a prime spree! 

Vic. (Winking.) But do you remember that? 

Tac. (Winking.) O, what? about him? 

Vic. (Winking.) No—about her. 

Tac. To be sure! That was the best part of the 
joke. Then the cab. 

Vic. And the songs! 

Tac. And the policeman! altogether, it was the most 
glorious adventure I ever had in all my life; and I’ve 
seen a thing or two. (Winks.) 

Vic. So have I! I think I’ve been out with you every 
night, except last Wednesday. 

Tac. (Aside.) To wit, the saloon and oyster-stall 
night —see The Times, Herald, et cetera, et cetera. 

Vic. But I say I’m rather hard up. You know I 
paid last night; we were to settle this morning. I 
would not press you if I had not seen those six fives. 

Tac. O, I’m quite willing. 

Vic. There was one bottle of wine—one dollar. 

Tac. Right. 

Vicr. Three glasses of brandy and water! 

Tac. Two, my dear fellow. 

Vic. No—I will take my oath it was three! 


The Stage-Struck Clerk 


119 


Tac. No, no; it was indeed but two. However, I 
see how it is; you were a little —(taps his forehead). 
You are not quite seasoned to this sort of fun, as I am; 
but you will be, by-and-by. 

Vic. Well, then, brandy, a quarter—that makes one 
dollar and a quarter. Three glasses of ale and a sand¬ 
wich. 

Tac. Come, that’s capital! Well, I did not think 
you was so far gone as all that. I knew you were pretty 
well— 

Vic. What the deuce do you mean? 

Tac. Mean? Why, your taste must have been quite 
gone. It was three glasses of lager—not ale, and two 
plates of Limburger cheese. 

Vic. Was it, indeed? Well, one dollar and a quar¬ 
ter, and a quarter, that makes one dollar and a half. 
Breakfast at the coffee-house—fifty cents. 

Tac. Right—that makes two dollars and I must pay 
you one. - 

Vic. Certainly. 

Tac. Which I will do on the spot. (Feels in his 
pockets.) Six five dollar bills. I hate changing bills— 
one’s silver runs away so. I’ll toss you—head or tail. 

Vic. Done! 

Tac. One toss decides. (Tosses up the coin.) 

Vic. Head! (Tactic pretends to try to catch the 
coin; hut purposely lets it fall to the floor. He then 
picks it up hastily.) 

Tac. Egad! it’s a tail. The birds were always pro¬ 
pitious to me. 

Vic. Was it not head, though? I never saw what 
it was. 

Tac. No, but I did; and two eyes are enough to see 
one eagle. 

Vic. True, but—* 

Tac. Zounds! you would not doubt my honor? 
Hem! I owe you nothing now. 

Vic. What a lucky fellow you are. 


120 


The Stage-Struck Clerk 


Tac. No, I don’t think so; and if you knew all the 
sums I have lost, you would think differently. I will 
give you your revenge at poker this evening. 

Vic. (Aside.) Revenge! That means he will win five 
more. 

Tac. But, Fag, hullo! come here, man. (Fag rises 
and comes forward.) You must take some of my 
tickets. 

Fag. Tickets—what tickets? 

Tac. Box tickets. I am going to play Romeo at our 
Private Theatre. 

Fag. I never heard anything of it. Where is your 
Private Theatre. 

Tac. O, I’ll give you the proper directions. Only 
a quarter for a box ticket. You may take one lady with 
you, and no extra charge. Won’t you have three or four? 
Ask your friends; but mind, no half price. Boxes, a 
quarter; pit, fifteen cents; and gallery ten cents—can’t 
stand half price. 

Fag. Romeo, you are going to be, are you ? 

Vic. Yes; and I’m going to be Tybalt. 

Tac. Why, you saw me bring in a bundle. That 
contained my armor. 

Fag. Armor for Romeo? 

Tac. I know it is not the usual costume; but there’s 
to be a shield fight between myself and Tybalt—a Pri¬ 
vate audience would hiss a tragedy without a shield 
fight—consequently, the armor was indispensable. All’s 
ready but the sword. (Goes to his desk and takes out a 
shield.) There! what do you think of that? There’s 
lustre! It will be a rival sun to Juliet. We have got 
a new Juliet, by-the-by; we have cast off the old one. 

Vic. Ay! I wonder how the old Juliet will take it? 

Tac. Sourly enough, you may depend. But do ad¬ 
mire my shield! Not dear for a dollar—eh, Fag? 

Fag. No, not at all. (Aside.) An old pot-lid, with a 
bit of tucker, and the handle put in the inside. 


The Stage-Struck Clerk 


121 


Tac. My adversary, Tybalt,—that is, Victim,—will 
see himself reflected in the shield. 

Fag. Yes; and then it will look like the shield of 
Minerva. 

Vic. Why? 

Fag. Because there will be an ugly face in the mid¬ 
dle of it. 

Vic. He, he, he! Fag begins to grow witty. 

Tac. Not bad of Fag, though. You wanted a 
nomme de guerre to put in the bills—call yourself Mr. 
Gorgon!—ha, ha, ha! But look here. (Stands in an 
attitude of defence, with shield.) How do you like this 
attitude ? 

Vic. O, capital! Bravo! 

Tac. Do you think so? Yet I do not practise this 
sort of thing much. I fall into attitudes by a sort of 
instinct. They seem natural to me. Here’s another. 
(Puts himself into a new attitude. Takes a roll of 
parchment.) Strike at me. 

Victim strikes at him with a roll of parchment. A bur¬ 
lesque theatrical combat. Enter Mr. Hooker. Vic¬ 
tim and Fag start back to their seats; but Tactic, 
not in the least startled, puts the shield up the back 
of his coat, without its being perceived by Mr. 
Hooker, and sustains it by holding his hands be¬ 
hind him. 

Mr. H. Victim, I think it is time for you to go to 
Court. Get your hat and go. 

Vic. Yes, sir. (Exit.) 

Mr. H. Fag, take this letter. 

Fag. Yes, sir. (Exit.) 

During the following dialogue. Tactic is obliged to keep 
his hands behind him. 

Mr. H. Tactic, come nearer. I wish to speak to you 
seriously—very seriously. 

Tac. (Rather alarmed.) Si-i-ir? 


122 


The Stage-Struck Clerk 


Mr. H. You know I often talk to you more as a con¬ 
fidant than as a mere clerk. 

Tac. Sir, I am perfectly aware to what extent I am 
flattered by your kindness. (Aside.) What the deuce is 
he going to say? 

Mr. H. Well, then, in respect to Victim. 

Tac. (Aside.) That name revives me! (Aloud.) Yes, 
sir. 

Mr. H. I am afraid he is not going on well. What 
is your opinion? 

Tac. I had rather not give it, sir. I make it a rule 
never to injure a man in the opinion of his employer. 
(Aside.) The old guy has been reading the Police 
report. 

Mr. H. I honor your feeling. (Tactic bows.) But 
there is a duty between employer and clerk. I have 
read in this morning’s paper an account of Victim. You 
have read it, perhaps. 

Tac. Alas! I have. 

Mr. H. Is it all true? 

Tac. Alas! it is. (Aside.) Barring the name. But 
“what’s in a name?” as Juliet says. 

Mr. H. Then, Mr. Knitbrow, my best client, being 
sitting magistrate!— 

Tac. (Aside.) Yes, curse him!—why did he just 
recover from the gout? 

Mr. H. If the fellow must kick up rows in the street, 
he might as well have selected the other end of the 
town. Then, his irregular hours—I am afraid I shall 
not be able to keep him. However, I’ll give him one 
more trial; and I wish you to watch over his conduct, 
and, if you see anything bad, report it to me. 

Tac. Well, sir—it is a painful duty; but I must 
perform it. 

Mr. H. Mr. Knitbrow is coming to-day. 

Tac. (Aside.) O, the deuce! 


The Stage-Struck Clerk 


123 


Mr. H. He will be in my room; and, as I don’t wish 
him to see Victim, I request you to come up when I 
ring the bell. 

Tac. Ahem! (Aside.) I am done for. (Aloud.) I 
do not think that a good plan, sir. 

Mr. H. No?—why not? 

Tac. He—m! I can’t give a precise reason; but I 
don’t think so—I don’t think so! 

Mr. H. You must have some motive. 

Tac. Why, if Victim went up, the very sight of the 
magistrate might give him a stimulus to reform, just as 
a thief is affected by the sight of the gallows. Then, 
Mr. Knitbrow will learn nothing new. He already 
knows the offender to be one of your clerks. 

Mr. H. True, true. There may be something in 
that. 

Tac. (Aside.) Then there’s a five-barred gate leaped 
over. 

Mr. H. But, there is one circumstance,—the paper 
said that Victim had a furious black eye—Thursday 
was the day—now, I never saw his black eye. 

Tac. Ah, sir, you are not up to this sort of thing! 
(Very fast, as if speaking by rote.) There is a certain 
stuff, of which you scrape a little, and take it on the 
point of your knife, apply it to the eyelid, and it will 
entirely remove the appearance of blackness; but, take 
care that not the least particle gets into the eye, or it 
will do you an indelible injury. 

Mr. H. You seem to know a great deal about this 
sort of thing. Your eye has nearly got well, I see; but, 
now I think of it, it was on Thursday that you came 
with it quite black. 

Tac. Was it, indeed, Thursday? Why! so it was! 
Odd—is it not? but strange coincidences do happen. I 
could tell you a story of my grandfather. 

Mr. H. Another time, Tactic. You told me how you 
got that black eye, but I forget. 


124 


The Stage-Struck Clerk 


Tac. (Aside.) Egad! so do I! When a man tells a 
lie every hour, he can’t be expected to remember one 
for two days. (Aloud.) It was the door! 

Mr. H. The door? Why, now it has just come into 
my head. You said before you knocked your eye 
against a post. 

Tac. Hem! Ye-e-es, sir!—only you would not let 
me finish the sentence—the door-post, sir! 

Mr. H. O! very well! But there is one thing more. 
Your salary is twelve dollars a week. Now, I will ad¬ 
vance it to fifteen dollars. 

Tac. My dear sir! (Lifts up both hands. The shield 
falls from behind him with a great crash.) 

Mr. H. What the deuce is that? 

Tac. He-e-m!—that, sir? Was it not a noise? 

Mr. H. Noise?—yes, of course; but I mean the 
cause of the noise? 

Tac. That was myself, sir. 

Mr. H. Yes, yes; but I mean what’s that thing? 

Tac. O! this, you mean?—this on the floor! 

Mr. H. (Impatiently.) Of course, I do! 

Tac. Ah, sir! now, I dare say, you would never 
guess what that is! 

Mr. H. No, no—not I! 

Tac. Why, to tell the truth, (Aside) that is, any¬ 
thing but the truth, (Aloud) when our beneficial society 
meets we put this on the table to receive donations, and 
as it got broke last night, I took it to get mended. 

Mr. H. I am sure I should never have guessed that. 
Well, I must go up stairs. (Exit.) 

Tac. (Solus.) He’s gone! Augustus Tactic! thou art 
a clever fellow! In this short conversation, about half 
a dozen hard points arose, and I smoothed them all 
down. Smoothing is certainly my forte. Had I been a 
carpenter, I should have shone in planing; had I been 
a painter, in varnishing; had I turned my attention to 
roads, I should have started macadamizing;—being a 


The Stage-Struck Clerk 


125 


lawyer’s clerk, I excel in humbugging. By-the-by, I 
wonder how that infernal bill of mine gets on; the last 
indorsee threatened to arrest me. 

Enter Constable. 

Constable. Is your name Augustus Tactic, sir? 

Tac. (Aside.) What an ill-looking rascal! That’s 
Squire Jenk’s new man, beginning his practice with me. 
(Aloud.) Augustus Backbite? No, sir. 

Con. Tactic! 

Tac. O, Tactic? We have a Tactic here, sir. I 
don’t know exactly whether his name be Augustus. 
(Aside.) Deuced lucky it’s a new man—Jenk’s old 
bull-dog knew me, as well as the sheriff. 

Con. Is he within? 

Tac. No; he has gone to Court; he will not stay 
there long. You may meet him if you go that way. 

Con. What sort of a man is he? 

Tac. O, he-?* 

*This blank to be filled up with a description of the person 
and dress of the actor who plays Victim. 

Con. Thank ye, sir. (Exit.) 

Tac. There’s another rock steered by. How for¬ 
tunate the indorsee of that bill never saw me!—all the 
powers of description were left to myself. (Goes to 
wing.) There’s the constable walking up and down 
before the door—and there—is it he ? Yes, there comes 
Victim—constable’s eye brightening—“His eye is in 
itself a sun”—recognizes costume before-mentioned— 
goes up to Victim—latter shakes his head—I know 
every word they say, though I don’t hear a letter— 
constable winks, “I’m not to be done.” Knowing dog! 
Victim grows warm—constable repeats his wink—takes 
hold of Victim’s arm—friendly creature—exeunt con¬ 
stable and Victim. (Leaves the wing.) A most ex¬ 
quisite chain of events! But I am afraid it will soon 
be re-enter constable and Victim; so I had better ask 
for a half holiday. (Knock.) Come in! 



126 


The Stage-Struck Clerk 


Enter Mrs. Dobson and Fanny . 

Fanny. Good morning, Mr. Tactic. 

Tac. Good morning, ladies. Fine weather! The 
sun almost—not quite—as bright as your eyes, Miss 
Dobson! 

Fan. La, Mr. Tactic. 

Mrs. Dobson. You make my girl blush! Is Mr. 
Hooker disengaged? 

Tac. I’ll go and see, ladies. (Exit.) 

Mrs. D. How quick and obliging he is! He would 
be something like a lover! 

Fan. So was Victim once, ma! But I think there 
are no lovers now. O, in the story books I have read of 
lovers that would fight giants and dragons for whole 
years, and think themselves extremely well off if their 
ladies only condescended to look at them. 

Enter Tactic. 

Tac. Mr. Hooker will see you, ladies. (Exeunt Mrs. 
Dobson and Fanny.) Victim’s sweetheart smiles upon 
me—approves of my letter, evidently. Nature must 
have put me and Victim into a pair of scales—I cannot 
raise myself without depressing him. But the old man 
must be safe. Now to contemplate my costumes. (Takes 
the bundle and shield out of his desk,—takes from 
the bundle a helmet, cloak and gauntlets, which he puts 
on while speaking.) Beautiful, beautiful they look! 
There is my helmet on! (Takes out a pocket glass.) 
Brass on my forehead seems quite natural; rather large 
—I must tie it tight under the chin, or a sudden start 
will disarm me. (Ties it.) There are my gloves on— 
there’s the cloak, which, like charity, covers a multi¬ 
tude of sins, according to a venerable joke. Thus I am 
completely covered—the lawyer’s clerk is eclipsed! I 
am a hieroglyphic of myself. The very dress inspires 
me—I could almost fancy I heard Juliet’s footsteps on 
the balcony. No; but, zounds, there’s old Hooker’s 
footsteps on the stairs. I must cast off my splendor— 


The Stage-Struck Clerk 


127 


be shorn of my beams, like the sun in the fog! (Throws 
off his cloak and gloves, but cannot take off his helmet.) 
The deuce! I have tied the helmet in a knot, a knot as 
tight as the hangman will tie it, if I don’t mend. My 
grandeur sits too close upon me—Hooker will be down 
in a moment—where’s my penknife? 

Enter Mr. Hooker, with Mrs. Dobson and Fannie. 

Tactic averts his face. 

Mr. H. Hullo! who the deuce are you ? What, Tac¬ 
tic, are you going to enlist in the dragoons? 

Fan. (To Mrs. Dobson.) He looks very well, though, 
don’t he, ma? 

Mrs. D. Yes, poor young fellow—I hope he won’t 
get into a scrape. 

Tac. (Aside.) Hang it! now I am driven into a cor¬ 
ner! (Aloud.) Quite an accident, sir—purely an acci¬ 
dent. 

Mr. H. Well, sir; that is the most extraordinary 
explanation I ever heard. Clap that great helmet on 
your head—which, by-the-by, is large enough to extin¬ 
guish you—and then say it is all by accident! 

Tac. (Aside.) I must brazen it out. (Aloud.) I 
thought you would not mind a little harmless pastime, 
sir, and so— 

Enter Juliet Snooks, in a violent rage. 

Juliet. (To Tactic.) I have found you, you villain, 
have I? 

Tac. (Aside.) Juliet the first, by all that’s unlucky! 

Mr.H. What is all this? 

Jul. You are a villain! 

Tac. (Whispers.) Yes, yes—I know I am! only do 
go away—and do not make a noise, that’s a dear 
woman! 

Jul. (Very loud.) Noise? I will make a noise! I’ll 
bawl like you did in Macbeth. 

Mr. H. Tactic, this seems a strange affair! 

Fan. Does it not look odd, ma? 


128 


The Stage-Struck Clerk 


Mrs. D. My dear, I’m afraid Mr. Tactic is no bet¬ 
ter than he should be. 

Jul. Perjured wretch! 

Tac. (Whispers.) Do go, my dear Juliet. I’ll meet 
you anywhere you like this evening, and you may blow 
me up for two hours, if you like. 

Jul. (Very loud.) Go, miscreant, go! Can you have 
the heart to tell me to go, with that helmet on, under 
which I first saw your wicked, deceitful face? 

Mr. H. My good woman, speak in a low key. 

Tac. (With assumed confidence.) Yes, good woman, 
do. 

Jul. I tell you, sir, I am not a good woman! Have 
you forgotten the vows you made over the glass of 
punch? I remember it as if it were yesterday; there 
was a bit of lemon-peel floating on the top of the glass. 

Tac. (Aside.) Which I wish had stuck in your 
throat, with all my soul! 

Jul. And so I’m not to play Juliet at your benefit? 

Mr. H. Benefit, Tactic? What the deuce does she 
mean by benefit? 

Tac. I don’t know, sir—I suppose she alludes to 
my beneficial society—but her language is so inco¬ 
herent. 

Jul. Miss Araminta Higginbotham is to be Juliet, 
is she? I think I see her in the balcony. But I’ll be 
there as well as she—aye, and in full dress, too! There 
shall be two Juliets at the ball, and two Juliets in the 
balcony, and Juliet the first shall tear out the eyes of 
Juliet the second! 

Tac. (Aside.) Egad, then, there will be another com¬ 
bat besides the shield fight! 

Mr. H. What does she mean, Tactic? 

Tac. Mean, sir? How can I tell the meaning of 
what every mad woman says? 


The Stage-Struck Clerk 


129 


Jul. Mad, eh? Mad? O, I like that! I tell you 
your name is Augustus Tactic, and the unfortunate 
young man you lead into all manner of mischief is 
George Victim. Is this like madness? 

Fan. (Cries out.) You? You—you who wrote the 
letter? Is it you that misled poor Victim? O, you 
good-for-nothing man! 

Mrs. D. O, you double-faced individual! 

Mr. H. O, you infernal hypocrite! 

Jul. (Slaps his face.) Take that, miscreant! 

Enter Mr. Knitbrow. 

Knitbrow. Hullo, hullo! Are you all fighting? 

Mr. H. Really, my dear Mr. Knitbrow, I am sorry 
you have come while my office is in such confusion. 

Tac. (Aside.) Old Knitbrow, too. Swallow me, 
earth. 

Knit. I suppose you are fixing up your office for a 
boxing room. This Mr. Victim, I know, has a taste for 
pugilism. 

Mr. H. That’s not Victim—that’s Tactic! 

Tac. (Aside.) What a crowding of incidents! Iam 
sure I shall be crushed under the pressure of my own 
sins! 

Knit. That Tactic? Why, he was brought before 
me the other day and called himself Victim. 

Mr. H. Bare-faced impostor! 

Fan. Deceitful monster! 

Mrs. D. Treacherous villain! 

Jul. Just like him! 

Tac. One at a time, pray—or if you mean to anni¬ 
hilate me, do it as quick as possible. 

Enter Constable and Victim. 

Tac. (Aside.) The constable come back with Vic¬ 
tim! This is the grand climax—this is the finishing 
touch to the whole! 

Constable. (To Victim.) This is the gemman as told 
me your name was Tactic. 


130 


From Punkin Ridga 


Vic. Nay, this is too bad—I never thought you 
heartless enough to cause a friend to be sent to jail to 
get yourself out of a scrape. Tactic, I have done with 
you forever. If an acquaintance had not recognized me, 
I might have been detained for hours. Mr. Hooker, 
if you have noticed anything wrong in my conduct, I 
entreat you to pass it over—this man, who calls him¬ 
self my friend, was the cause of all. 

Mr. II. Victim, here’s my hand—you were in error, 
but I forgive you. 

Vic. And, Fanny, I confess to you that my late 
hours were all owing to my associating with this man, 
and that all excuses I made were false. Can you for¬ 
give me? 

Fan. Yes, George, I’ll forgive you this time, but 
mind you are not a naughty boy any more! 

Mrs. D. And I won’t press for the rent at present. 

Con.. Then, it appears, this is the real Mr. Tactic? 

Mr. II. Yes, yes—take him off—the sooner the 
better. 

Tac. Stop a minute. (Comes forward.) Ladies and 
Gentlemen—will none of you be bail for me? I know 
you will, you all look so good-natured—do, some of 
you—I’ll give you half-a-dozen box tickets for my 
benefit. A shield fight, and two Juliets—is not that an 
attraction? The law has dropped on to me, but I know 
ladies and gentlemen—yes, I am sure you will patronize 
me, when I appear on the stage. (Tableau.) 


Curtain. 


FROM PUNKIN RIDGE 


CHARACTERS 


Jonathan Scruggins 
Mr. Brown 
Augustus Simroy 
Harry Clifton 


First Policeman 
Second Policeman 
Belinda Jane Hopkins 
Miss Elizabeth Brown 


Annie Brown 



From Punkin Ridge 


131 


Costumes. —Modern, except those of Jonathan and Belinda 
Jane. Jonathan. —“Yankee suit”; bell-crowned hat; swallow¬ 
tail coat; striped pants, short, with straps; heavy boots or 
shoes; tall collar; flashy neck-tie. Belinda Jane. —Calico 
gown; large bonnet. 

Scene I .—Room in Mr. Brown’s house. Mr. Brown and 
Miss Elizabeth Brown discovered. 

Mr. Brown. Elizabeth, I beg of you, don’t be so 
foolish. Why, you are at least fifty years of age, and 
the idea of— 

Miss Brown. Stop, sir! I do not wish you to allude 
to my age. I think I am able to attend to my own 
affairs, and I should prefer that you would not dictate. 

Mr. Brown. But consider, Elizabeth; the gentleman 
who pretends to love you is nothing but a conceited 
popinjay, and, it may be, a worthless adventurer and 
a vagabond— 

Miss Brown. Brother Benjamin, that is enough. 
You shall not abuse a person who has shown a pref¬ 
erence for me, and who is, in all his actions, a perfect 
gentleman. 

Mr. Brown. Doesn’t it look as though he was an 
adventurer, when he has been but two weeks in the 
neighborhood, and has already shown a partiality for 
you? It is very clear in my mind that he doesn’t care 
for you, but only wants your money. 

Miss Brown. (Meaningly.) Well, if he does want 
to possess himself of my money he is not the only one. 
But I know that is not what he is seeking for. He 
loves me for myself alone. 

Mr. Brown. (Aside.) The old fool! 

Miss Brown. He does not want to marry me because 
I happen to have some property. I know he does not. 
He is a nobleman from England. 

Mr. Brown. Pooh! Don’t tell me that! He is an 
adventurer and a scoundrel! I know he is. Is it prob¬ 
able a young man would want to marry an old fool if 
he didn’t want her money? 


132 


From Punkin Ridge 


Miss Brown . Stop, Benjamin! That’s enough! 
Another outburst of that kind, and I shall leave your 
house, never to return. 

Mr. Brown. I beg pardon, Elizabeth; perhaps I 
have been too hasty. But consider the matter, and when 
you marry, be sure that you marry a worthy man. (Exit 
Mr. Brown.) 

Miss Brown. Brother Benjamin is becoming a little 
dogmatical and obstreperous. But he shall not dictate 
to me. I shall marry whom I please and when I please. 
Mr. Simroy an adventurer and a scoundrel—the idea! 
It is very provoking to have one’s lover assailed and 
vituperated with such oporobrious epithets. And it 
shall not be done. My dear Augustus shall not be 
assaulted and battered in this manner—no, indeed! 
Brother Benjamin knows I have a large amount of 
money, and he does not wish it to go out of the family 
—in short, he wants it himself. My dear Augustus 
promises, if I will be his, to take me away to his beau¬ 
tiful home upon the bank's of the Thames or the Tom- 
bigbee, or something or another, and perhaps I shall 
not need my money. He must be very wealthy, for he 
dresses with excellent taste. I believe I shall give half 
of my property to my niece, Annie, and the other half 
to my brother, Benjamin, provided he learns to con¬ 
duct himself properly when I speak of my beloved 
Augustus. (Takes letter out of her pocket.) But I 
must read his letter again. (Reads.) “My dear Eliz¬ 
abeth. I shall call to see you to-day. I shall fly on 
the wings of the wind to meet you, and shall be more 
than delighted to greet you. Yours forever, Augustus.” 
There! Isn’t that beautiful ? “I shall fly on the wings 
of the wind to meet you, and shall be more than de¬ 
lighted to greet you/’ That is poetry. I know he is 
a learned man. He has studied paregoric and the 
geographies under the old masters. And he is a noble¬ 
man, too! Oh, it is so sweet to think of it! Won’t the 
other young ladies feel zealous when they learn that I 


From Punkin Ridge 


133 


have won the prize, and carried off the elegant Mr. 
Simroy? Jane Parker will be full of wrath and waxi- 
fication, and Sally Burke will be almost purple with 
zealousness. Now, how shall I receive him? Shall I 
stand thus? (Stands.) And when he comes in move 
toward him with a graceful sweep, and say “Mr. Sim- 
roy, I am delighted—I am so happy, oh, so happy to 
see you?” Or, shall I sit in my chair languishly, thus 
(leaning back in chair), and when he comes shall I 
spring up, throw my arms around him in a girlish and 
loving way, and say, with my lips close to his cheek, 
“Oh, my dear Augustus, I am so glad you have come! 
I am so glad to flee to your dear arms! Let them twine 
around me, just the way the oak twines around the 
vine?” -Yes, I think I shall say the latter. It will look 
more gushing-like; and as I am a little older in appear¬ 
ance than Augustus, it will be better to be somewhat 
gushing in my manner. 

Enter Annie. 

Annie. My dear aunt, I have just received a letter 
from Harry Clifton, stating that he has arrived and 
will be here tonight. You know he has been away for 
two long years, and I have felt very lonely. I shall be 
very glad to receive him. 

Miss Brown. Your lover coming home! I doubt not 
you will be glad to see him. (Simpering.) And my lover 
is coming, too; but then, you know, he has been here 
often of late. 

Annie Aunt, I do not quite like Mr. Simroy. I fear 
he is an impostor. You know he has been staying at 
the American Hotel over in the village for two weeks, 
and nobody knows where he came from or anything 
about him. I do not want you to get into trouble. 

Miss Brown. There, child, you are just like your 
father. Don’t be alarmed, Annie; I know Mr. Simroy 
is an honorable gentleman. I can see it in his face, and 
in his honest eye. And, oh! he has such a sublime mus- 


134 


From Punkin Ridge 


tache! Why, he is a nobleman from England, and, you 
know, none but the highest class are noblemen. He is 
very wealthy, and I think I shall not need my money 
when I marry him. I will leave all my property to you 
and your father, provided he ceases to oppose this 
happy union. But my lover—my dear Augustus—will 
soon be here, and I must away to my room and prepare 
to meet him. (Exit Miss Brown.) 

Annie. I fear my aunt, in her anxiety to get married, 
is throwing herself away upon a worthless fellow. But 
why do I trouble myself so much about her when my 
own beloved Harry is coming? He will soon be here. 
Two long years have passed away, and yet he is firm 
in his love for me. What a noble, true man he is! (Exit 
Annie.) 

Scene II.— Yard in front of Mr. Brown's house. 

Enter Mr. Brown. 

Mr. Brown. Now that I am in the open air, I sup¬ 
pose I may give vent to my feelings. My sister seems 
to have taken entire leave of her senses. Surely she 
has, for no woman in her right mind would be deceived 
by a person who seems to have plenty of fine clothes 
and but little brains. Pretends to be an English noble¬ 
man ! Humph! Pretty nobleman! I venture the 
assertion he never saw England. It is more probable 
that he is a rascal seeking to raise the wind in any way 
that seems most easy and practicable. I can see through 
his designs. He knows that Elizabeth has money, and 
he wants to possess it. Oh, I could wring his neck! 
But I mustn’t get into a passion; I must keep cool and 
think. Now, how must I act? 

Enter Jonathan Scruggins, carrying a carpet-hag and 
whistling ({ Yankee Doodle." 

Jonathan. Hello, square, dew yeou live areound 
here ? 

Mr. Brown. I do; this is my house. 


From Punkin Ridge 


135 


Jonathan. Gumtown! That house yeour’n? Wall, 

I kinder thought yeou walked areound as ef yeou 
owned some property. I reckon it cost yeou a sight 
of money tew build that house? 

Mr. Brown. Yes, sir; considerable. You seem to be 
a stranger here. 

Jonathan. Wall, I reckon I be. I’ve come all the 
way from Punkin Ridge, down in the State of Maine, 
and I’m most tarnation hungry. (Aside.) I reckon he’ll 
take the hint. 

Mr. Brown. All the way from Maine? 

Jonathan. Yas, sir; all the way from Maine, and 
hain’t had a bite to eat all this blessed day. 

Mr. Brown. Why don’t you stop at a hotel and get 
something to eat when you get hungry ? 

Jonathan. Wall, to tell the hull truth, I’m abeout 
run eout of money, and hotel keepers deown in these 
parts don’t give victuals away, free gratis, for nothin’. 

Mr. Brown. Would you like to hire with me for 
awhile ? 

Jonathan. That’s jest the very thing I’ve been 
wantin’ to ax yeou abeout, but someheow I couldn’t git 
it done. 

Mr. Brown. I suppose you are a young man of some 
intelligence. You can read and write, I suppose? 

Jonathan. Wall, I reckon I kin. And I’ve studied 
some in algihra , too. 

Mr. Brown. My name is Brown. May I ask yours ? 

Jonathan. Sart’inly yeou may, and I’ll tell yeou, tew. 
My name is Jonathan Scruggins. I’m a son of Nehe- 
miah Scruggins, and my marm’s name was Winkletown 
afore she was married. Thar was a big family of the 
Scrugginses. Uncle Dan Scruggins, he lives eout tew 
Maple Holler. He has a house consid’able like yeour’n, 
only it hain’t got sich peaked-up gable-ends. Uncle 
Dan was a-drivin’ along deown Maple Holler one day 
on a smashin’ big load of grass, and all tew wunst the 
fore wheels went kerchuck intew a big hole in the road, 


136 


From Punkin Ridge 


and Uncle Dan he rolled off. He got his left shoulder- 
blade knocked eout o’ jint, and one side of his nose was 
skinned awful. I reckon yeou hain’t never been deown 
to Maple Holler? 

Mr. Brown. No. 

Jonathan. Nor tew Punkin Ridge? 

Mr. Brown. No. 

Jonathan. Then yeou’ve missed a sight. It’s a rail 
purty place. The Skummers live there, and the Whip¬ 
ples, and the Slopers, and the Sockerhocks, and the 
Wingerleys, and a hull heap more. 

Mr. Brown. You have worked some on a farm, I 
suppose ? 

Jonathan. Yas, I guess I have. Dad says as heow 
I’m the tearinist worker in the family, and it went ag’in 
him consid’able tew see me go away, but I was sot on 
goin’, and I thought there warn’t no use in stickin’ tew 
hum all the time and seein’ nothin’ at all. And so last 
week I packed up and started off, and I hain’t had a 
bite tew eat this hull blessed day. 

Mr. Brown. You started last week, you say? 

Jonathan. (Aside.) That old feller can’t take a hint 
noheow. (To Mr. Brown.) Yes, sir; I started last 
week. 

Mr. Brown. Well, you may consider yourself en¬ 
gaged. 

Jonathan. Abeout heow much air yeou goin’ tew 
give me? Dad allers told me tew make a fair and 
square bargain before goin’ intew any business. 

Mr. Brown. I’ll give you thirty dollars per month, 
and throw in five or six more if you suit me. 

Jonathan. Georgetown! I’ll suit yeou then—I know 
I will. Why, square, yeou’re as liberal as Deacon Pike- 
hall, and he’s the most liberal old feller on Punkin 
Ridge. I reckon yeou didn’t know Deacon Pikehall? 

Mr. Brown. No; I did not have that honor. 

Jonathan. Wall, he was a son of Obadiah Pikehall. 
The Pikehalls was a very populous family. Jim Pike- 


From Punkin Ridge 


137 


hall was a second cousin to Jonas Hackensack, and he 
was a half-uncle to Uncle Job’s sister Sal—she that 
married Hezakiah Wimpleton, and got her nose knocked 
eout o’ j’int when she was a gal, a-fallin’ eout of a hay¬ 
mow. Maria Wimpleton was a third cousin tew Si 
Whittaker’s Uncle Joe, and he had a bile on the p’int 
of his nose fur up’ards of three weeks. One of his boys 
was a-comin’ deown stairs one day, and somehow he 
got upsot and deown he went a-tumblin’. He butted a 
hole in the eend of the house, and cum eout jest above 
the cellar door. 

Mr. Brown. Jonathan, I fear you are inclined to 
talk too much, but I think I can cure you of that. Wait 
here a few minutes until I return. (Exit Mr. Brown.) 

Jonathan. I wonder if that old feller don’t know 
I’m hungry? My constitution and by-laws won’t hold 
eout much longer if I don’t git somethin’ tew eat. 
(Looks off L.) What starchy lookin’ feller’s this? 

Enter Augustus Simroy. 

Heow de dew? (Augustus doesn't notice him.) Neow, 
that feller’s sorter stuck up. (Clearing his throat.) 
Hem! hem! Say, yeou, look ee here! Heow de dew ? 

Augustus. (Aside.) A country bumpkin! I suppose 
I must notice him. (Aloud.) Well, sir, what do you 
want ? 

Jonathan. Yeou’re an awful slick-lookin’ feller. 
Where’d yeou git so many good clothes ? 

Augustus. You are disposed to be impertinent. 

Jonathan. Not at all. The square has hired me, and 
I want tew git a suit o’ clothes jest like yeour’n. That’s 
a smashin’ hat yeou’ve got, too. Reckon yeou d pay 
abeout a dollar seventy-five fur that hat? 

Augustus. You are an impertinent puppy, sir; and I 
have a mind to cane you. 

Jonathan. Can’t dew it, starchy— yeou can’t! Zeke 
Slogger tried tew cane me once, and afore he could 
say Jack Robinson he found himself standin’ on his 


138 


From Punkin Ridge 


head on the t’other-side of a fence. And his neck was 
consid’ably jammed and twisted abeout. Heow dew 
yeou cum tew look so straight and purty ? Warn’t yeou 
starched and stood up ag’in a fence to freeze? 

Augustus. I forgive you for your impertinence, for 
you are doubtless unaware that I am an English noble¬ 
man. 

Jonathan. Yeou a nobleman? Sho! Giteout! Wall, 
I think they must be abeout run out of noblemen if 
yeou are one of ’em. Yeou look an awful sight like 
Uncle Josi’s yearlin’ calf, and yeou go areound sorter 
divibley, like as if yeou had been fed on powerful 
weak diet. Yeou are awful slim abeout the middle. 
I guess yeou must be hungry tew. 

Augustus. I despise such low-bred fellows. Take 
that! (Strikes at Jonathan with his cane. Jonathan 
with one hand wrests the cane from him, and with the 
other hand crushes his hat over his eyes.) 

Jonathan. Thar’s one nobby hat gone up. I swow, 
Mr. Nobleman, yeou look a heap like a goslin’ jest a 
cornin’ eout of the shell. 

Augustus. You shall pay dearly for this. 

Jonathan. Wall, I kin afford tew pay for it, for I’m 
hired at thirty dollars a month. (Exit Augustus into 
the house.) By the jumpin’ jingies, that feller’s gone 
into the square’s house! Here’s a go! This may git 
me into trouble. Wall, I wanted tew smash that hat, 
anyhow, and I don’t keer if I do lose my place. 

Re-enter Mr. Brown. 

Hello, square, yeou’re back ag’in! Wall, I’m glad 
tew see yeou, fur my receptacle is still gittin’ slimmer. 

Mr. Brown. Do you know what you’ve been doing? 

Jonathan. (Aside.) Hokey! He seed me! (To Mr. 
Brown.) Yas, I was smashin’ a hat. I never seed a hat 
that needed smashin’ worser’n that ’un did. He pre¬ 
tends tew be an English nobleman, and he ain’t no 


From Punkin Ridge 


139 


more a nobleman than I am. I was jest a-tellin’ him 
that he looks a heap like Uncle Josi’s yearlin’ calf, 
and I swow, it’s a fact! 

Mr. Brown. That gentleman’s name is Augustus 
Simroy. Come into the house and get something to 
eat, and I’ll lay out some work for you. 

Jonathan. I wouldn’t mind, square, if you’d let me 
lay eout that Mr. Slimboy. I feel sorter rantankerous 
towards him. He’s a nateral enemy, and if yeou’ll jest 
say the word I’ll make him flatter’n a pancake in less’n 
no time. (Exit Mr. Brown and Jonathan into house.) 

Scene III.— An apartment in Mr. Brown's house. Miss 
Brown and Augustus discovered seated. 

Miss Brown. Oh, Mr. Simroy, you know it would 
be so hard for me to go away from this dear old coun¬ 
try— so hard! Here I have lived these many years; 
here I have grown up from childhood to old—that is, 
here I have grown up. Must I go away to that far-off 
country! Must I go to England ? 

Augustus. Of course I would prefer, my dear Eliz¬ 
abeth, that we should go back to my own country, and 
live in my own house—my grand mansion; but if you 
do not wish to go, Elizabeth, we will not. I will build 
you a beautiful home here in your own native land, and 
we will be very happy. 

Miss Brown. Oh, that will be excellent! That will 
be transcendently splendiferous! And I have been 
thinking that when we are married I had better leave 
my money to my brother and his daughter. Benjamin 
has been unfortunate and has lost much, while you have 
an abundance for both of us. What is your advice, 
dear Augustus? 

Augustus. (Aside.) The old fool! The money is 
what I want. (To Miss Brown.) No, Elizabeth, I 
would not do that. You know not at what hour dis¬ 
asters may overtake us, and I may lose all I have 
(Aside) —which isn’t much. Then, how nice it would 


140 


From Punkin Ridge 


be, Elizabeth, to have your purse to fall back upon. I 
hope you will forgive me for speaking so plainly, but 
I speak for your happiness as well as for the happiness 
of myself. Indeed, I already have fears of losing some 
of my property in England. If I should lose it, with 
your aid it can be regained. Oh, my dear Elizabeth, 
do not part with your money. Your brother and his 
daughter can get along. They are young, while you 
are—that is, they are able to work for a living. You 
will not dispose of your property in that way—will 
you, Elizabeth? 

Miss Brown. No, Augustus; I shall be guided by 
you. I feel that you are wise, and that you would 
advise nothing but that which is right and proper. 

Augustus. (Draws his chair close to her side and 
takes her hand.) My dear Elizabeth, you have shown me 
favor; now tell me you will consent to our union. You 
have long delayed your answer, but all the while I have 
felt that you loved me—I have felt that we were con¬ 
genial spirits. Say the word now, Elizabeth, and make 
me happy—say that you will be mine. (Miss Brown 
rests her head on his shoulder.) 

Miss Brown. Oh, Augustus! 

Enter Jonathan. 

Jonathan. Jehosaphat! Here’s a leetle job of 
courtin’ goin’ on. Hello, Mr. Tomboy! (Miss Brown 
and Augustus spring to their feet.) Heow dew yeou 
dew neow? Got that air hat straightened eout yit? 

Augustus. Puppy! How dare you intrude upon us? 

Miss Brown. Your impudence is unparalleled! 

Jonathan. Wall, yas, I s’pose it is, but then the 
square told me tew look areound over the premises a 
leetle, and I thought I’d jest step in here. This is a 
mighty nice room. I ’spect the square’ll set up a bed 
and let me sleep in here. He’s mighty good tew me, 
anyheow. 


From Punkin Ridge 


141 


Miss Brown. You will do us a favor now, if you will 
step out for a few minutes. 

Augustus. Yes, you insolent fellow; get out, or I will 
kick you out. 

Jonathan. Yeou kick me eout? Yeou? Sho! Why, 
Mr. Slimboy, I could burst yeou in less’n no time. So 
don’t give me none o’ yeour sass. 

Miss. Brown. Well, Jonathan, please retire for a 
few moments. Mr. Simroy and I wish to have some 
private conversation. 

Jonathan. (Aside.) Yas, I understand; they want 
tew continner their courtin’. Wall, I don’t believe that 
Mr. Slimboy is a shinin’ up tew that old gal on account 
of her good looks. She’s as humly as the widder Wig¬ 
gins’s darter Sal, and she was so all-fired humly she 
skeered all the keows eout of Uncle Toby’s paster. 
(To Miss Brown.) Wall, since yeou’ve axed me so 
perlite, I’ll slope; but if I wos yeou I wouldn’t spark 
that Mr. Slimboy. He seems tew be kinder gi’n eout 
abeout the j’ints, and yeou’d do a hanged sight better 
tew court me a leetle, ’cos I’m a well-to-do feller, and 
dad’s got a ten-acre field in turnips. 

Augustus. Go, you booby, or I shall cane you. 

Jonathan. Yas, a feller tried that a spell ago and 
he got his hat scrunched. Good mornin’, Mr. Tomboy; 
hope tew see yeou ag’n, arter yeou git through with 
yeour courtin’. (Exit Jonathan.) 

Augustus. It is provoking that we must be inter¬ 
rupted by that greenhorn. I wonder that your brother 
would consent to have such a person about the house. 
(Augustus and Miss Brown resume their seats.) 

Miss Brown. It is provoking, I know. But, dear 
Augustus, you were speaking beautifully when we were 
interrupted. Will you continue in the same strain? 

Augustus. My dear Elizabeth, I had asked you to 
be mine and was awaiting my answer. You had com¬ 
menced to speak. I will repeat the question. 


142 


From Punkin Ridge 


Miss Brown. Do, dear Augustus! I so love to 
hang upon those words. I love to—to—hear you talk 
that way. 

Augustus. (Aside.) What a confounded old fool! 
(To Miss Brown.) Light of my life—star of my 
future—Miss Elizabeth— 

Miss Brown. Oh, how I love to hear you say those 
beautiful words! 

Augustus. Dearest Elizabeth, will you consent to 
make me happy? Will you be my wife? 

Enter Jonathan. 

Jonathan. Look ee here, Mr. Slimboy; that air old 
mare of the square’s has got inter the corn-field, and 
I thought I’d cum and ax yeou to help me git her eout. 

Augustus. Numskull! Go! (Exit Jonathan.) Isn’t 
this provoking? 

Miss Brown. Provoking? It is unbearable! He 
is gone again, and you may proceed. 

Augustus. Our_ words will have to be short, and to 
the point. Will you consent to marry me? 

Miss Brown. Yes, I consent. Dearest Augustus, 
I am altogether yours. I can be very happy with you, 
and very unhappy without you. Take me into your 
arms, dearest Augustus. (Augustus opens his arms ., 
and Miss Brown falls into them.) Oh, it is so delight¬ 
ful to repose upon the manly bosom of a nobleman! 

(Enter Jonathan.) 

Jonathan. Hello, Mr. Slimboy! I thought I’d jest 
run in tew tell yeou that the square’s old gray goose 
has hatched eout ten goslins. One of ’em looks an 
awful sight like yeou. (Miss Brown steps hack.) 

Augustus. (In a passion.) Dog! You shall pay 
for this! 

Jonathan. Dog, did yeou say? Wall, I kin pay 
’most any time, fur the square’s hired me at thirty 
dollars a month, and I git my board and washin’ inter 


From Punkin Ridge 


143 


the bargain. I swow, Mr. Slimboy, when yeou git 
your dander up yeou look a heap like Sam Johnson’s 
mule when it had the heaves. (Exit Jonathan.) 

Augustus. Elizabeth, it is unbearable to be so 
annoyed by this country sleuth-hound. I shall bid you 
adieu now, and return to the hotel. When I come 
again I hope he will be gone or at least that he will 
know his place better. Adieu, my beautiful one. I 
shall claim you soon. Adieu, adieu! 

Miss Brown. Adieu, Augustie! Au revolver! (Exit 
Augustus.) 

Scene I .—An apartment in Mr. Brown’s house. 

Enter Annie Brown. 

Annie. I wonder why Harry is so long in coming. 
He expected to be here last night, but has never yet 
arrived. I fear some evil has overtaken him. Indeed, 
I feel quite uneasy. Ah! A step. He comes. (Look¬ 
ing off.) But no! Tis my father’s hired man. 

Enter Jonathan. 

Jonathan. Good mornin’, mum. Yeou’re the square’s 
darter, I understand. 

Annie. I am. You wish to see me? 

Jonathan. Wall, no, not partic’lar. Yeou see, I’m 
jest goin’ reound lamin’ the ways of the house. The 
square’s hired me at thirty dollars a month, and I’ve 
taken a likin’ fur him. I’d do e’en a’most anythin to 
sarve the square. (Aside.) Gewhittaker! Ain t she 
a purty gal? Oh, I guess I’m a goner! 

Annie. What are you talking to yourself about? 

Jonathan. Wall, I was jest remarkin’ that you was 
awful purty. Yeou look as slick as the four-o’clock 
posies on our house deown tew Punkin Ridge. Reckon 
yeou don’t paint, do yeou? 

Annie. (Laughing.) No, I believe not. 


144 


From Punkin Ridge 


Jonathan. Wall, I thought yeou looked like as if 
yeou had too much sense tew do that. May I ax yeour 
name ? 

Annie. My name is Annie. 

Jonathan. And mine is Jonathan—Jonathan Scrug- 
gins. I’m a son of old Nehemiah Scruggins, and my 
marm’s name was Winkletown afore she was married. 

Annie. My father informed me that your name was 
Jonathan. 

Jonathan. The square’s a tip-top feller. Me and 
him air a-gittin’ along splendid. (Sighs.) Oh, my! 
I’m a goner! 

Annie. Is there anything the matter with you? 
You seem to be unwell. 

Jonathan. (Aside.) I guess I’ll let Belinder Jane 
go tew thunder! (To Annie.) Miss Annie, I—I— 
I’ve got the—that is, I’ve tuck a likin’ fur you! 

Annie. Indeed! You surprise me. 

Jonathan. Wall, I’m a good deal surprised, tew, 
fur, you see, I’ve got a gal deown tew Punkin Ridge, 
and her name’s Belinder Jane Hopkins. I used to like 
her awful, but since I’ve seen yeou I’ve—I’ve—con¬ 
cluded tew let her go. I’d a heap rather have you, 
because yeou air so tarnation slick and purty. 

Annie. It would not be honorable to leave your 
Belinda Jane and try to marry another. 

Jonathan. Sho! Yeou don’t say so. 

Annie. Yes, it is true. 

Jonathan. Wall, neow, I didn’t know that. Thar 
was Jake Pepperson, he sparked Salina Banks fur 
about six months, and then he quit and tuck arter 
Sally Briggs. (Aside.) Sho! she’s jest pertendin’. I 
believe she’s got a notion of me, but don’t want tew 
let on. (To Annie.) I’ve got a tremendous likin’ fur 
yeou, and thar ain’t no use a-tryin’ tew scrunch it 
deown! Belinder Jane ain’t nowhere compared tew 
yeou. What do you say—will yeou hitch to me? 

Annie. I cannot. 


From Punkin Ridge 


145 


Jonathan. (Very much cast dozvn.) Oh, gewhit- 
taker! how bad I do feel! I guess I'm sick all over. 
Oh, I—think—I’ll have tew—go—and lie—down a 
spell. (Exit Jonathan.) 

Enter Harry Clifton. 

Harry. My dear Annie! 

Annie. Oh, Harry! I am so glad to see you again! 
(Embrace.) But what is the matter with your face? 
And why did you not come last night, as you expected? 

Harry. I was on myi way here, but when some dis¬ 
tance from the village two villains attacked me, knocked 
me down, and robbed me of my pocket-book. With 
difficulty I reached a neighboring house, and there I 
remained until today. I really thought the time of 
highway robbery was past. 

Annie. Ah! there are many persons yet who will 
do anything for money. Have you fully recovered? 

Harry. Yes; and I can identify one of the persons, 
which is some consolation. 

Annie. It isn’t probable you will ever have an 
opportunity of identifying either of them. They will 
not remain long in the neighborhood after committing 
such an outrage. 

Harry. Well, we will not trouble ourselves about 
this little matter. I am home again, and expect to 
remain. 

Annie. I have so much to tell you, Harry; but come, 
we will take a walk in the garden and have a long talk. 
(Exit Annie and Harry.) 

Enter Mr. Brown. 

Mr. Brown. My sister is determined to make a fool 
of herself and marry that puppy Simroy. How can I 
prevent it? I am convinced that he is a villain, but 
how shall I prove it? Confound all such rascals and 
old maids! The former should be hung and the latter 


146 


From Punkin Ridge 


should be sent to lunatic asylums. But I mustn’t stand 
here talking; I must act before it is too late. (Exit 
Mr. Brown.) 

Enter Jonathan. 

Jonathan. I swow, this is tew bad! I was right 
deown sure I could marry that gal, and she jest flopped 
me overboard in less’n no time. Oh, but I do feel bad! 
Hain’t felt so bad since I had the measles. Wall, I 
guess I must be a-courtin’ somebody, and if I can’t 
court the angelic Annie I’ll try courtin’ that wizzened 
up old maid, jest tew make Mr. Slimboy feel rantan- 
kerous. I want tew give that Slimboy a powerful lam- 
min’, and I’ll do it, tew, or my name isn’t Scruggins. 
(Exit Jonathan.) 

Scene V.— Mr. Brown’s parlor. Miss Brown and 
Augustus discovered. 

Miss Brown. My dear Augustus, I am ready to fly 
with you. I supposed that, since I belonged to the 
aristocracy and high sailers, you would consent to wait 
a few weeks until I should get ready, and that we would 
be married in church in grand style. I wanted to 
astonish the Harpers, and the Williamsons, and the 
Simpsons, and all the rest of them. 

Augustus. I would gladly accede to your wishes, 
but I long to claim you as my own. I wish to leave 
this part of the country immediately, and cannot think 
of going without you. I do not desire to return for 
you, but wish to take you now. Be in the arbor tomor¬ 
row night at twelve o’clock, and I will come for you. 
We will drive over to Weston and be married imme¬ 
diately. Then we will go to the city and remain a 
few days. I think it better thus, as your brother is 
opposed to our union, and it will prevent any disturb¬ 
ance if we go off in a quiet way. 

Miss Brown. It seems so strange that brother Ben¬ 
jamin should object to my marrying a nobleman from 
England. Indeed, I feel very much flattered, and I 


From Punkin Ridge 


147 


am, oh, so happy, to be your young and blushing bride. 
(Miss Brown goes and stands beside Augustus and 
leans lovingly against him.) 

Augustus. And, dearest, don’t forget to have all 
your valuables with you. You can give them into my 
possession when you meet me in the arbor. Remember 
the bonds. You know we may need them all. 

Miss Brown. I will have everything. You shall 
have everything, and my brother shall have nothing. 
It shall be just as you say, dear Augustus. 

Enter Jonathan. 

Jonathan. Hello, thar, Mr. Slimboy! Yeou and 
that old gal’s a-huggin’ ag’n? Yeou seem tew be a 
heap wumbleguzzled abeout each other. 

Augustus. (Angrily.) How dare you cross my 
path again? 

Jonathan. Cross yeour path! Why, that ain’t 
nothin’. We’ve got a goose path eout tew Punkin 
Ridge, and I’ve crossed it many a time. I don’t make 
nothin’ o’ doin’ that. 

Augustus. (Savagely.) Begone! 

Jonathan. That’s right; holler it eout loud! Yeou ve 
got a mighty good voice fur drivin’ oxen. Mr. Slim¬ 
boy, s’pose yeou holler ag’in. 

Enter Annie and Harry. 

Harry. Great Caesar! That is one of the scoun¬ 
drels who robbed me. (To Augustus.) Sir, do you 
know me? Perhaps you remember that a certain per¬ 
son was knocked down and robbed not long ago. Do 
I resemble that man? 

Augustus. What do you mean? 

Harry. I mean that you and another scoundrel 
knocked me down and relieved me of my pocket-book. 
Do you understand that? 

Augustus. How dare you speak so to me? But I 
will not stay here to be insulted. (Attempts to go off.) 


148 


From Punkin Ridge 


Jonathan. (Stepping before him.) No yeou don’t, 
Mr. Slimboy! Jest stand thar like as if yeou was 
a-goin’ tew take root, and if yeou don’t, I’ll smash 
yeour hat ag’in! 

Enter two Policemen. 

First Policeman. Hello, Jim Smith! we’ve got you 
at last. We’ve had a long look for you, but you’ve 
turned up. (Policemen seize Augustus and put on 
bracelets.) 

Augustus. Curses on you! 

Second Policeman. Come, Jim, don’t swear; it won’t 
do any good. 

Miss Brown. What means this? It shall not be. 
Mr. Simroy is a gentleman—a nobleman from England. 

First Policeman. Madam, Mr. Simroy, as he is 
pleased to call himself, is a housebreaker. 

Harry. And a highway robber. He and another 
villain knocked me down and relieved me of my pocket- 
book last night. 

Miss Brown. Augustus, is this true? Really, is it 
true? Have you dared to win my tender and trusting 
heart, and you a buggler? 

Jonathan. Yas, Mr. Slimboy has turned eout a 
buggler, and it’s a buggle of a job for him. 

Augustus. (In a passion.) You half-witted baboon, 
I’d like to shoot you! 

Jonathan. Sho’! I s’pose yeou would tew! How’d 
yeou like tew have yeour hat scrounched ag’in? Look 
ee here, Mr. Slimboy, otherwise Mr. Jim Smith, yeou 
said I would have tew pay yeou fur my doin’s. I guess 
I kin pay yeou before yeou go. The square gives me 
thirty dollars a month. 

Miss Brown. (Weeping.) Oh, that my maiden af¬ 
fection should be crushed in this manner! Oh, dear! 

Jonathan. It shan’t be crushed, Miss Brown; no 
siree—not by a jugful! I’ll take Jim Smith’s place 
and court yeou splendid. 


From Punkin Ridge 


149 


Annie. You need not care, auntie. You should be 
glad it is no worse. 

First Policeman. Come along, Jim; you are safe for 
awhile. 

Second Policeman. And you’ll not soon get a chance 
again to pass yourself off for an Englishman. (Exit 
First and Second Policemen, leading off Augustus, L. 
Annie and Harry exit, R.) 

Jonathan. Look a-here, Miss Brown, that feller’s 
come tew a bad end. (Miss Brown continues to weep.) 
But don’t take on abeout it. Thar’s lots of young 
chaps, and they are a hanged sight better’n Mr. Slim- 
boy. If they don’t wear as good clothes, they pay fur 
’em honestly, and don’t go abeout knockin’ deown 
people and breakin’ open houses. 

Miss Brown. Please, Mr. Jonathan, do not harrow 
my tortured feelings and wring my already bleeding 
and palpitating heart. 

Jonathan. Got the palpitation, have yeou? I guess 
I’d better run fur the doctor. 

Miss Brown. Oh, no, Mr. Jonathan, I do not need 
any medicine. All I want is sympathy and affection. 

Jonathan. Wall, I’ve got a hull heap of that. Yeou 
see, I had a likin’ fur a gal of the name of Belinda 
Jane Hopkins—she lives deown tew Punkin Ridge— 
but since I’ve come here I don t seem tew keer much 
abeout her. I guess I could court yeou a spell so’s 
tew keep in the hang of it. I never courted anybody 
as old as yeou— 

Miss Brown. How dare you allude to my age? 

Jonathan. (Aside.) Gewhittaker! That makes her 
hoppin’ mad. (To Miss Brown.) Miss Brown, I axes 
pardon. That was jest a slip o’ the tongue. I meant 
that I’d never courted anybody as beautiful as yeou. 
Yeou’ve got sich beautiful hair onto yeour head, and 
sich languishin’ eyes, and sich a kissable mouth. I 
swow tew gracious, Miss Brown, I’d like tew buss yeou 
right under the nose! 


150 


From Punkin Ridge 


Miss Brown. (Simpering.) Oh, Jonathan, you are 
such a dear, wicked man! Well, as you are my friend 
in the midst of my trouble I will let you kiss me. 

Jonathan. (Aside.) Gosh! I’d jest as lief be 
excused. But I reckon thar’s no backin’ eout. (To 
Miss Brown.) Come ahead, old gal— 

Miss Brown. What’s that you say? 

Jonathan. Oh, bother! that’s another slip o’ the 
tongue. Yeou see, I’ve been studyin’ a\gibra lately, 
and I hain’t got complete control of my talkin’ appara¬ 
tus. Miss Brown, I— 

Miss Brown. Oh, Jonathan, don’t call me Miss 
Brown; it sounds so cold and formal. 

Jonathan. Wall, what the dickens will I call yeou? 

Miss Brown. Call me Elizabeth, or Lizzie, or Lib- 
bie. Call me pet names, for it soothes my tortured 
heart. Be kind and gentle with me, and I will love 
you, dear Jonathan. 

Jonathan. By the jumpin’ jingoes, that old gal is 
mighty shaller abeout the upper story. (Going up to 
Miss Brown and taking her hand.) Yeou’ll love me, 
will yeou, yeou purty little spring chicken? 

Miss Brown. Yes, dear Jonathan; in my trouble 
my heart goes out for sympathy and affection, and if 
you will love me, dear Jonathan, I will love you. 

Jonathan. Wall, that seems purty fair. Uncle Josi 
used tew say, “What’s sass for a goose is sass for a 
gander.” 

Miss Brown. (Trying to look shy and bashful.) 
You know, Jonathan, you were talking about something 
a few minutes ago. Don’t you remember? 

Jonathan. No, I declare I don’t! What was it? 

Miss Brown. Oh, Jonathan! Spare my blushes. 
Don’t you remember what you said you wanted? 

Jonathan. (Aside, and making a wry face.) By 
jingo! thar ain’t goin’ tew be any gittin’ eout of it. I 


From Punkin Ridge 


151 


s’pose I’ll have tew give the old gal a buss, or there’ll 
be a rumpus. (To Miss Brown.) Wall, come ahead, 
yeou tender spring chicken. 

Enter Belinda Jane Hopkins, as Jonathan kisses 
Miss Brown. 

Belinda Jane. (Rushes up and commences heating 
Jonathan.) Jonathan Scruggins, yeou nasty varmint, 
how dare yeou kiss that old witch? 

Jonathan. Jehosophat! Don’t pummel me so— 
yeou’ll cave my head in! 

Miss Brown. (Rushes up to Belinda Jane, and 
commences to strike her.) You ugly little woman, 
what brought you here, and what business have you 
with my dear Jonathan? 

Belinda Jane. He isn’t your Jonathan; he is my 
Jonathan. 

Miss Brown. ’Tisn’t so! He has kissed my unsul- 
livated lips, and he is going to marry me! 

Belinda Jane. (Strikes Miss Brown.) Take that, 
yeou ugly old scarecrow! 

Miss Brown. (Strikes Belinda Jane.) And you 
take that! I’ll pull your hair out! 

Belinda Jane. I’ll scratch yeour nose off. (They 
fight a short time, uttering such exclamations as, “Take 
that!" “Ugly old thing!” “Quit!” “Let go!” etc. 
Jonathan dances around them, seemingly very much 
pleased, and exclaiming, “Go it, old roosters!” “Pitch 
in!” “The best gal gits me,” etc. He finally rushes 
between and separates them.) 

Jonathan. Better stop neow; yeou’ve done purty 
well. (Aside.) It makes a feller feel as if he was 
some punkins, when two gals gits tew fightin’ abeout 
him! 

Miss Brown. (To Belinda Jane.) Who are you, 
anyhow? and what brought you here? 

Belinda Jane. Wall, I kin tell yeou, yeou old scare¬ 
crow. (Miss Brown advances toward Belinda Jane, 


152 


From Punkin Ridge 


but Jonathan holds her bach.) I am Belinda Jane 
Hopkins, the betroughled husband of Jonathan Scrug- 
gins, and I ain’t goin’ tew see him kissin’ no ugly old 
gal like yeou. 

Miss Brown. How dare you? I’ll pull your head off. 

Belinda Jane. Wall, yeou kin jest have a chance. 
(They commence to fight. Jonathan gets between them 
and shouts:) 

Jonathan. I ain’t betroughled tew none of yeou. I 
won’t have anything tew do with such wild-cats! So 
neow! 

Miss Brown. Oh, would you forsake me after win¬ 
ning my young and trusting heart? (Commences to 
beat him.) 

Belinda Jane. Will yeou desert me, when I have 
been engaged tew yeou so long? (Miss Brown and 
Belinda Jane both strike him, and pull his hair. He 
gets away,^and runs around the stage, shouting.) 

Jonathan. Gewhillakins! Jehosophat! Land of 
Pequonnock! Square Brown, come here, or I’ll be 
murdered! Fire! Thunderation! Take them off! Let 
me go! (They pursue and strike at him, one using a 
broom and the other a shovel.) 

Enter Mr. Brown. 

Mr. Brown. Hello! What’s this? Elizabeth, how 
dare you act so? 

Miss Brown. He has forsaken me, and I will be 
avenged—avenged! 

Belinda Jane. He has acted right deown shabby 
with me, and I’ll split his head open. (Still following 
and striking at him.) 

Mr. Brown. (Goes before them.) Stop, both of 
you! You shall not strike my Jonathan. 

Miss Brown and Belinda Jane. Then we will strike 
you. (They commence to beat Mr. Brown.) 

Mr. Brown. (Shouting.) Stop! Murder! Help! 
Jonathan! 


From Punkin Ridge 


153 


Jonathan. (Coming to front of stage.) Oh, what 
a wallopin’ I have got! Oh! 

Mr. Brown. Jonathan, come here. Will you stand 
by and see me abused? 

Jonathan. Wall, yes, I guess I will! I feel that 
I have got tored up sufficient. 

Mr. Brown. (To Miss Brown and Belinda Jane.) 
Cease, and you shall have satisfaction. (To Jonathan.) 
Now, sir, it appears that you have promised to marry 
both these ladies. 

Jonathan. No, I didn’t—no siree Bob—I didn’t say 
I’d marry that old gal. 

Miss Brown. He did! he did! And he kissed my 
maiden lips. 

Jonathan. Yeou see, square, I was jist courtin’ a 
leetle fur the fun of the thing. 

Miss Brown. Oh, you villain! I’ll sue you for 
breach of promise. 

Jonathan. (Looking at his pantaloons.) Britches of 
promise! Sho! they ain’t nothin’ but corduroys. I 
bought them deown tew Punkin Ridge. 

Miss Brown. I’ll be revenged. You shall pay for this. 

Jonathan. Wall, I kin afford tew pay, fur the square 
gives me thirty dollars a month, and board and w r ashin’. 

Mr. Brown. I feel it my duty to inquire into this 
matter. Jonathan, who is this lady who claims you as 
her promised husband? 

Belinda Jane. I kin answer that. My name is 
Belinda Jane Hopkins. I live deown tew Punkin Ridge. 
Jonathan Scruggins axed me tew marry him, and I 
told him I’d be willin’ tew do so, and be glad tew boot. 
He courted me a long spell, and then he ups and comes 
away from Punkin Ridge without tellin’ me anything 
abeout it. I sot sail and come arter him, fur I thought 
he might take a notion of some other gal, and I thought 
I’d better be areound. I kept track of him, and I jist 
stepped in in time tew see him kissin’ that ugly old 
varmint. 


1 54 , 


From Punkin Ridge 


Miss Brown. (Advancing.) Heow dare you? I’ll 
scratch your eyes out. 

Jonathan. Gewhittaker! Thar’s goin’ tew be another 
rumpus. 

Mr. Brown. (To Miss Brown.) Elizabeth, be pa¬ 
tient; you shall have your rights. Jonathan, did you 
ask my sister to marry you? 

Jonathan. By hokey, no! I did not. 

Miss Brown. Well, you kissed me, and that’s just 
the same. 

Jonathan. Madagascar and the North Pole! Kissin’ 
a gal the same as axin’ her to marry! Wall, if that 
don’t beat all natur’! Why, I reckon I’ve kissed 
Jemima Doolittle a hundred and forty times, and I 
never dreamed of marryin’ her. Yeou see, square, she 
said as heow she could like me if I’d like her, and I 
telled her I guessed that would be fair. Then I said 
as how that Uncle Josi allers said that whatever was 
sass fur the goose was sass fur the gander. I seed 
she wanted a buss, and I gin her a rouser, but I’d jest 
as lief a-been excused. 

Mr. Brown. Elizabeth, it appears that you have 
been too hasty. Jonathan is engaged to another woman, 
and must marry her. 

Miss Brown. Oh, I see how it is! You are all 
against me. But I will have my revenge; Jonathan 
shall pay for this. 

Jonathan. Wall, the square gives me thirty dollars 
a month. (Exit Miss Brown.) She’s madder’n a 
settin’ hen. 

Mr. Brown. She is still unmarried, and her money 
is likely to remain in the family. I heartily rejoice 
that she has escaped from the clutches of that rascal, 
Simroy. (To Jonathan.) Now, sir, it appears that 
you are engaged to this lady, Belinda Jane Hopkins. 

Jonathan. Wall, I did ax her once, but I didn’t 
know she was sich a tiger tew bite and scratch. 


From Punkin Ridge 


155 


Enter Harry and Annie. 

Harry. Well, Jonathan, it appears that you have 
found your mate at last; or rather, it appears that she 
has found you. Marry her and be happy as I am. 

Jonathan. Air yeou happy? Wall, I shouldn’t 
wonder a bit, fur yeou’ve got an awful purty gal fur 
a wife. (To Belinda Jane.) Wall, what do yeou say, 
Belinda Jane? If I marry yeou, yeou won’t rare and 
tear around any more like a rhi-noss-em-hoss, will yeou ? 

Belinda Jane. No, Jonathan, of course I won’t! 
Yeou see, I come in and ketched you a-kissin’ that old 
gal, and it was enough tew raise my dander, neow, 
warn’t it? 

Jonathan u Yas, in course it was, and it cum purty 
nigh turnin’ my stummick upside down. 

Mr. Brozvn. Now, kiss and be friends, and you shall 
have a grand wedding dinner tomorrow. 

Jonathan. Hokey! yes, we’ll do that. (Kisses 
Belinda Jane.) Hurrah! That’s a sight better'n 
kissin’ the old gal! By the topers, I’d like tew have 
another smack. (Kisses her again.) 

Belinda Jane. (Patting him on the shoulder.) Oh, 
Jonathan, yeou’re a bully feller! (Motioning with her 
head to audience.) But isn’t there something more to 
be said? 

Jonathan. By the jumpin’ jingoes, yes! I am so 
tickled abeout the way this thing has wound up that 
I had purty nigh forgot. (To audience.) Ladies and 
gentlemen, if our little piece has merited your appro¬ 
bation and helped to entertain the audience, Belinda 
Jane and Jonathan will feel highly flattered, and nei¬ 
ther of us will regret that we took our little trip 
From Punkin Ridge. 


Curtain. 


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